The Kirill Retaliation
by nicraydoi
Summary: With the help of a stranger, a French woman will discover that her father's death was no accident... A conspiracy, an assassination, and murder. They will all be uncovered.
1. A Conspiracy Uncovered

The agent poured himself another cup of coffee, black and strong. He needed something to keep his head clear, something with which to keep awake a bit longer. Working late that evening was certainly not part of his plan, but his chief had decided otherwise. He walked the long corridor back to his office, passing the reception desk where a petite, middle-age woman was sitting, seemingly engrossed in her work.

A newswoman could be heard on a TV in a corner stand.

_"Business mogul Nikolay Gorbachyov has been found dead in his Moscow residence late last night. He was apparently shot twice in the chest. There are no suspects as of yet. We will update as the FSB releases more information. Our sincere condolences to his wife and his family."_

"You're working late tonight, Olga," he said as he glanced at the receptionist.

"Overtime," she simply answered with a lopsided grin. "Good money. Your second of the night?" she gestured with her head toward the cup of coffee in his hand.

"Third, actually," he replied with a lopsided grin as he entered his office once again.

Being summoned all the way from France, to fly to Moscow and work for the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation, he knew it was serious business. The FSB had contacted the Interpol headquarters in Lyon and had asked for their best man for an important task. Apparently, they needed someone to infiltrate the system and he was the guy for it.

French agent Maurice Lambert was a man in his late fifties, although he looked quite younger as he had always kept physically active. He had started as a young hacker, doing odd jobs for greedy entrepreneurs, until he realized that working illegally was a bit too dangerous. That was when he landed with this great opportunity in his early thirties; working for the Interpol. Now only a few months before retirement, six to be exact, he was determined that this would be his last assignment.

Taking a sip of his coffee and setting it next to his computer keyboard, he once again concentrated on finding whatever he was supposed to find. He had looked at all the files through and through, but nothing. He had checked all the agents' e-mails and personal records, even the administrative workers' backgrounds. But absolutely nothing. He picked up his assignment file and opened it once again, re-reading it one more time.

_"Stolen money. Moles. Conspiracy."_ The words played in his mind, and he let out a heavy sigh. _"100 million dollars. Suspects in both the FSB and the Interpol."_ This was completely insane. A huge amount of money suddenly disappeared from the FSB account, and they highly suspected there were moles in both agencies. Traitors. Conspirators. And they expected him to find some clue, a slip, something.

He pressed the middle three fingers of each hand in his eye sockets, rubbing them tiredly, and let out another sigh as he felt the first poundings of a headache.

_Beep_.

His computer had stopped on something. Maurice separated his fingers and looked at the screen. There were files, and lots of them.

_"What the hell?"_ He recognized some of the faces, but most were unknown. There were names, employment numbers, years of active service, statuses, addresses. Then, the blinking mailbox icon at the bottom right caught his attention. Without hesitating, he directed the arrow on top of it and double-clicked.

The files and images went by in flashes, but the words and images stood out like daisies in a field of weeds.

_Yuri Gretkov. 100 millions dollars. Kill Nikolay Gorbachyov. Moles in the FSB and the Interpol_. There was a date, a place, the whole setup. And cover-up.

_Moles in the Interpol_. He recognized the names and faces. _"Sons of bitches. Never did trust those assholes."_

He copied the files and pasted them on his desktop, making sure it all looked completely ordinary. He couldn't risk anyone seeing them, not knowing who the traitors were. And he couldn't risk printing the files at the FSB headquarters. It could easily be tracked down to his office and his life would be in danger.

The safest thing to do would be to e-mail the files to his laptop at his apartment here in Moscow, and then bring the laptop with the files in it with him to Lyon when he returned home. There was only one person he could trust; his chief, his boss, his mentor.

Once that was done, he deleted the file on his desktop just to be safe and grabbed his jacket on the back of his chair. But as he was about to exit his office, he had a sudden thought. He sat back in his chair, grabbed a blank paper sheet, and wrote a letter to his last family member. He wrote her name down on the envelop after sealing it, and then left it on top of his desk.

He then practically ran along the corridor, not bothering to say goodbye to Olga who gave him an odd look as he darted past her desk.

He had never felt so nervous during one of his assignments. Something wasn't right, and he sensed it with every pounding in his head. His stomach was twisted in a knot, and he was sweating bullets. Discovering this conspiracy was just by chance, a fortunate one, but it was discovered and he had to see it exposed.

He drove a bit above the limit, after all he was somewhat of a cop and should follow the law, but this was important. Taking the first flight out to Lyon was also very important, and delivering the files to his chief was highly important.

As the names and faces whirled in his minds over and over, he hadn't noticed the black car following him close behind. Then, his thoughts were interrupted by a loud crash as the car collided in his from behind.

"WHAT THE...!"

Maurice's car slid off the road. Looking in his side mirror he noticed the black sedan, which was still very close and coming closer by the second. He managed to regain control, but the black car slammed in him once more, and this time there was no recovering. His car hit the side of a building and Maurice blacked out for a second, realizing the airbag had popped open in his face.

Groaning weakly, he was just barely able to turn his head to the left to see that the driver of the black sedan had stopped only a couple of meters away. The headlights were kept on as the driver got out of the car, walking slowly but purposely toward him. Maurice glanced at the revolver in the man's right hand.

Not taking his eyes off the revolver, he tried to reach his own in the glove compartment, but his right shoulder just wouldn't let him stretch that far; it was apparently dislocated.

"_Damn,_" Maurice muttered to himself. "Who are you? What's all this about?" he asked weakly.

"Agent Lambert," the man said in an accented English. He was obviously Russian. "You have been working late tonight. You should not have been working late tonight," he continued, which made Maurice grunt, recognizing his face immediately. He had seen it earlier on his computer screen, which linked him to the Gretkov conspiracy.

"This is about the files," he guessed and the Russian simply sneered. "What do you want?"

"I'm simply here to get rid of the evidence," he replied. "You know something you shouldn't."

"How in the hell did you know I found the files?" But before the Russian could answer, it dawned on him. _Damn_. "You had a warning bug on it. You were alerted right away," and the Russian gave a brief, crude laugh.

"Hm, yes, technology. It is great, isn't it?" he retorted, taking his cell phone out of his jacket pocket to show the agent and putting it back. "Do you really think we could take any chance? Do you have any idea how long I have been working for the FSB? I'm sorry, but I cannot allow you to deliver the files to the Interpol," he explained, although by the look on his face, Maurice could tell he wasn't sorry at all.

"What I found links Gretkov, you and all your other partners-in-crime to the death of Nikolay Gorbachyov and the stolen money," Maurice hissed. "I have no interest in knowing why you would want that tycoon murdered, but your boss Gretkov will never make parole. He'll..." but Maurice never finished his statement as the Russian pulled the trigger of the gun, aimed at the agent's head.

The gun shot resounded in the clear night, prompting a nearby dog to bark. The Russian traitor wasted no time. He walked to his car and opened the trunk, retrieving a canister filled with gas. He walked toward the agent's car, covered it with gasoline, and set the car on fire with the French agent's lifeless body in it.

Walking to his car, he took his cell phone out of his pocket once again, dialed a number and waited for an answer.

"_Viktor?_" the voice answered.

"It's done," he simply said, and hung up as the burning car exploded behind him.


	2. Receiving The Bad News

Sitting alone in the front porch one cool evening, Catherine slowly sipped a cup of hot green tea. Here in her father's old stone house in the region of Rhone-Alpes, near Lyon, France, she had made a simple life for herself, working in a souvenir shop at the local medieval village, after her mother's tragic death in a car accident on a rainy night twelve years prior. Being an Interpol agent, her father was away for the most part of every year, so she lived alone, waiting for him to return home for a month or two of well-deserved vacation.

At almost 32 years of age, she had never married and had no interest in raising children. Thinking back on the days before her father became an international agent, she remembered how her father would come home after his shift at the Interpol international headquarters, and their lives would be somewhat normal. But then after a few years, when her father had been promoted and was asked to travel the world as a secret agent, she noticed how unhappy her mother was when left alone to take care of their only daughter, and she had sworn that she would never let herself go through that.

Staring into nothingness, she suddenly became aware of a black Explorer pulling into the driveway. The windows were tinted black, so she could hardly see the occupants of the vehicle. _"Could dad be home early?"_ she asked herself. Not moving a muscle, she stayed in her chair, waiting for someone to step out. Not even bothering to turn off the car, the driver got out and walked toward the house. Black suit, shiny shoes, stiff posture. _"Who the hell is that?"_ she wondered, and downed the rest of her tea. Setting the cup on the deck, she rose to meet him.

"Catherine Lambert?" the agent asked as he opened the door of the porch and climbed the steps, flipping open a black leather case revealing his badge.

_"A British accent. What does he want?"_ Catherine thought to herself. "Yes. Can I help you?" She glanced at his id beneath the badge.

"Nicholas Watson, Interpol, miss." He paused, sliding his id badge back inside his coat. "I'm here to inform you that there's been an accident. Your father was killed in a car crash during his assignment in Russia," Catherine gasped, putting a hand over her mouth. He spoke compassionately, but his voice was steady. "The roads were icy, and he hit the side of a building. The car exploded instantly."

Catherine shook her head slowly, trying to contain her tears. Her eyes stung, and her throat felt like she had swallowed a handful of sharp nails. She collapsed in the chair and rested her elbows on her thighs, burying her head in her hands as she started to sob quietly. The agent pulled out a white envelope from his jacket's inner pocket, and handed it to her.

"This was found on your father's desk in his office in Moscow. He meant for you to have it, in the event that something happened to him," he said. "I'm sorry, miss. If there is anything the agency can do, you let us know."

Catherine reached for the envelop with a trembling hand, and, with that, he was gone. She remained sitting there for a moment, holding onto the envelope and staring to where the SUV was parked. Looking down at the envelope, she noticed it was sealed tightly and her name was written on it; her father's handwriting.

"_Oh dad, no,_" she whispered, wiping her tears with the long sleeve of her white linen over-shirt. She rose once more and entered the house, securing the door lock behind her, and walked to the sitting room. Tossing another log in the fireplace and removing her over-shirt, leaving her in an cream-colored tank-top, she sat in her father's favorite davenport and covered herself with the thick afghan sprawled on its back.

She looked at the grandfather clock in the corner. Almost midnight.

She sighed, and, wiping her tears again with her fingers, she ripped open the envelope. Inside was a simple letter, handwritten, along with two copper keys; one small, one a bit larger. Holding the keys in her hands, she began to read the letter.

_Dear Kate,_

_If you receive this letter, it's because something's happened to me. I want you to call the Interpol headquarters, ask for my address, and then fly to Moscow. Use the bigger key to get into my apartment. Take my possessions and bring them back._

_You know where my will is. Use the smaller key to open my safe. And don't worry about the money. As you're reading this letter, the life insurance company has already been notified of my death and a large amount of money has been deposited into your bank account. It's enough to make this trip and back, plus support you for many years._

_I know I wasn't around as often as I should've been, and I won't try to make up excuses, but I will tell you that I loved you and your mother very much and that I did all of this because I wanted you two to have a good life. Bury me with mom and live on. For me._

_Dad_

One of her tears splattered on the letter, and Catherine watched it slowly dissipate in the paper. She read the last paragraph over and over, and she cried like a little girl. Her father was gone, and she felt like she had not told him enough that she loved him; she still had a million things to tell him. She curled up in a ball, hugging her legs to her stomach, and fell into a disturbed slumber.

When she woke up the next morning, Catherine felt like she had been up all night. Not feeling rested at all, her body ached everywhere and she felt sick to her stomach. Slowly getting up, she realized she still held the two keys in her hand and the letter had slipped on the floor beside the chair. She picked it up and sat at the table in the den, rereading it over and over.

And then, it dawned on her. Something was not right. Her father wanted her to fly to Moscow to get his personal things? What could he possibly have brought with him on this trip that would be important enough for her to bring back home? She knew her father too well. Things were not adding up. There was something else. Something he wasn't telling her in his letter.

She played with the keys in her hands, going over the sentences in her mind. _"Use the bigger key to get into my apartment and the smaller key to open my safe... Smaller key to open my safe."_ Wait a minute. _"Dad's safe doesn't open with a key. It's a combination lock!"_

Her father knew she was a sharp woman, and he knew she would figure things out. Quickly, she slid the keys in the side pocket of her army-green cargo pants, bolted from the chair and strode to his office. Once inside, she went behind the desk and pulled down a framed family portrait mounted on the wall to reveal the safe. Carefully setting the frame on the floor, she turned the lock. _Right 33, left 9, right 26_. The lock clicked and the safe opened.

There was not much in the safe. A file, probably his will, and a black box. She grabbed the file and opened it. _Maurice Lambert's Will & Testament_. There was a bunch of names; his lawyer, a local funeral home, his financial advisor; and a bunch of numbers she figured she had to call, and so she laid it on her father's desk for later. Reaching further into the safe, she grasped the black box. Sitting in the chair, she put the box on the desk and examined it. A simple wooden box, stained with a black tint, no lock, no lettering on it whatsoever. Taking a deep breath, she lifted an eyebrow while she opened it slowly.

The first thing that caught her attention was the black pistol. On it was written, in white, _Walther P99c DAO_. And carved on the handle, the letters _ML_. His initials.

Well, knowing her father's vocation, the handgun did not come as a shock to her. She picked it up and examined it, holding it in her right hand as she aimed it at the Julius Caesar bust in the corner of the office. And then glancing back inside the box, she was a bit more surprised by the amount of cash he had stashed, divided in bundles and neatly held together with elastic bands. Looking at the money more closely, she realized she did not recognize any of the bills.

There were at least five different currencies, none of which she had ever used. Not thinking she would ever have any use for it, she left it all in the box and put the box back in the safe and locked it. Still hanging onto the gun, she made her way upstairs to her bedroom where she slid the handgun under her pillow, _"just like in the movies"_, she mused, grinning despite her mood. She took the keys out of her pocket, staring at the smaller key. _"What's it for, dad? What do you want me to unlock with it?"_ she thought to herself. She then undressed and took a warm shower.

The first part of her day was spent on the phone in her father's office in a conference call with her father's lawyer and financial advisor who gave her the details of her father's legacy to her. And then she called the embalmer who assured her that her father's body had been delivered to him and that the funeral itself could take place on the day after tomorrow.

When she was done with the funeral home, she plopped on the sofa as she began to feel queasy again, and, closing her eyes for a moment, she jerked when a loud knock came from the front.

When she opened the door, she was not surprised to see the man standing there; her mother's father, one of the few persons she was the closest to other than her father. Both her parents being single children, she had no uncles, no aunts and no cousins. Both her grandmothers had died several years ago, and her paternal grandfather had passed a few years after her mother.

"_Hey Grandpa,_" she whispered, smiling slightly.

"Hello Cappuccino," he answered tenderly, wrapping his arms around her. Catherine smiled at his usage of her pet name, remembering how he had first called her that when she was but a toddler, explaining to her that her long, straight dark brown hair reminded him of his favorite drink.

"You haven't called me that for a long time," she said, pulling back a bit to look at him.

"It's been a while since you've looked so vulnerable," he replied as he looked at her with compassion. "It makes me happy that you never changed your hair," he said as he ran his hand over her hair. "How are you doing?"

She just smiled and shrugged as her lower lip trembled, but she held back her tears as she knew her grandfather would not bear to see her cry.

"I think I'll feel better once he rests with mom," she assured him, and he simply nodded. "When did you find out?"

"Early this morning," he replied. "The agency called to inform me. They figured you would need me." Catherine smiled.

"Come in," she gestured with her head. "I'll make us some lunch and you can help me plan my trip to Russia."


	3. A Familiar Face

"Any news on who our mystery patient is?" a stubby nurse asked her colleague in a heavy Russian accent as she monitored the unknown man's IV solution.

"Not really," the younger woman answered, jotting down their patient's heart beat and arterial pressure in his chart. "But I heard the police were here a couple of hours ago, asking about him."

"The police?" the older woman asked intriguingly. "You think he's a fugitive or something?

"Could be," the young nurse shrugged. "Sure looks like one," she continued. "They found him in a stolen SUV, crashed against a wall in a tunnel, bleeding to death. Someone called the medics and they brought him here. No wallet, no ID, nothing. The truck was full of bullet holes, windows broken, tires blown out. And, they found a gun on the floor," she explained. "Kinda sexy if you ask me," she added, smiling mischievously, which made her old friend chuckle.

"Sure," she replied. "If you like the dangerous, dark type."

The two nurses looked at each other and giggled, unaware that their patient had opened his eyes a few seconds ago. When he talked in his gruff, coarse voice, they both started as they looked down at him.

"Could you get me some water when you're done?" he asked rudely in Russian as he lifted himself in a sitting position.

The women looked at each other, and the stout woman gestured to her colleague.

"We better do what the man asks," she managed to say in a bold, yet professional way. And so they exited the hospital room, shortly returning with a food tray and a pitcher filled with water.

When they both stepped into the room, they gasped simultaneously as they stared at the bed. The sheets were tangled at the foot of the bed, the man's bloody clothes were gone, and their patient was nowhere to be seen. The door to the washroom was slightly ajar, and when they peeped inside, they noticed the door to the adjoining room was opened as well.

"Well," the older woman began. "Looks like he was in a hurry to get somewhere."

"Guess so," her young friend replied. "But why bother getting out through the other room instead of his?"

"Don't know," the nurse shrugged, and gestured toward the door with her head. "Probably so he wouldn't bump into us, " she presumed. "Come on. Let's go tell the medical staff chief. I assume he has to be considered dangerous, even if he is unarmed."

The man made his way swiftly to the elevators, recognizing the place. He had been to this hospital before. A little over ten years ago, actually. But he remembered the place.

As he rounded the corridor to the elevators, he noticed two policemen standing casually next to the door, chatting and laughing at something one of them had said. He immediately went in his cautious mood and decided to take the stairs instead. He pushed the door open and descended the steps two at a time, which surprisingly to him was not that much painful. He had been very lucky during that crash.

Approaching the base of the staircase, he pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head as he pushed the door to the lobby and quickly made his way to the entrance, glancing at a TV in the corner of the Emergency Waiting Room. At the bottom of the screen, in white letters, were the words _YURI GRETKOV ARRESTED FOR CONSPIRACY_. He could not hear what the newsman was saying, but he saw a picture of himself next to Gretkov's, linking him as a possible accomplice. He swore under his breath and bumped into a young woman, dismissing her hot-tempered comments as he dodged nearby cops.

He had noticed the date on the TV screen, so he knew he had only spent one night in the hospital. He had no idea how exactly Gretkov had been caught, although he had a strong suspicion that a certain fugitive CIA assassin had something to do with it, but first things first. He had to get to his apartment and find a way to disappear somewhere. That in itself would prove a bit of a challenge, but he had a backup plan. Assassins always had backup plans.

Having no money or any other method of payment whatsoever on him, he trekked the streets of Moscow to his apartment, ignoring the curious glances of the by-passers. After all, his jacket was partially covered with blood and he had a couple of bandages on his forehead.

Approaching his apartment building, he was not surprised to find cops there, drinking coffee out of paper cups to keep themselves warm, probably waiting for him to show up. He made his way to the back of the building, and, climbing on top of a dumpster, he jumped high enough to catch the tip of a metal ladder leading up the fire exits.

Finding his apartment ransacked and turned upside down did not shock him to say the least. Books, magazines and clothes were thrown all over the place, all the kitchen drawers emptied, and the sofa cushions ripped apart. A good thing he did not keep anything about his association with Gretkov in this place.

Hoping they did not find his hidden revolver and stash of cash, he tore one side of the mattress on his bed and reached in with his hand, pulling out a black duffel bag. Taking a quick peak out the front window of his third-floor apartment, he silently cursed as he saw two more policemen arrive. He could hear them speak through the flimsy window, albeit very faintly.

_"Should we check his apartment again?"_ he heard one ask the others, and another nodded briefly as the other two made their way to the front door of the building.

Not bothering to grab anything else, he left the rest of his possessions behind without a second thought and exited his apartment the same way he had gotten in. He had to get his hands on some kind of transportation, and he knew exactly where to get one. As he entered the underground parking lot of the lavish condominiums close-by, he rummaged through his bag and grabbed a spare license plate, placing it over the one on the black BMW M3 he carefully chose. He skillfully unlocked the car without triggering the alarm, hot-wired it, and took off.

The somewhat easiest part being over, he relaxed as he drove in the streets of Moscow, wondering where to go next. There were different options, all of them consisting of hiding away in some remote part of Southern Europe and start anew. He had always wanted to return to Italy or Greece, or maybe even Spain, especially Spain; without the picture of a target and a loaded gun, of course.

_"And in other news, Russian oil magnate Yuri Gretkov, who was recently arrested for stealing from the CIA, has been given a chance for parole..."_

The radio newswoman's voice alerted him once more, waking him of his musings, and he reached for the dial to turn up the volume.

_"...will appear in front of the Supreme Court a week from tomorrow to appeal his case."_

He turned off the radio furiously as he swore silently, and suddenly found himself torn in two. This was it; he could leave, just disappear, never to be seen or heard of again. He could be a free man, no more contracts, no more jobs, no more hiding his true identity But damn it, Gretkov could not go free. He was everything that was wrong with Russia, and he could not be allowed to just walk out.

The car tires screeched as he made a swift turn to the left, taking a back street that would take him to Gretkov Headquarters.

When he was last in contact with Gretkov a couple of days ago, he vaguely remembered him mentioning another heist, but from the FSB this time. He remembered him saying to his men that they had to get rid of businessman Nikolay Gorbachyov, a weakness in their plan so to speak.

As he approached the building, he stopped to park a couple of blocks away and turned off the engine. He could not reveal himself; not yet. He had to stay hidden. If he was lucky, Gretkov and his men would think that he had died during the crash. That would be best, make things easier. But he knew that it was mostly not the case, as already his face had appeared on TV and the police were looking for him. Gretkov would be informed of his survival, and he would try to get in touch with him.

Fighting to stay awake after a couple hours of waiting, he was suddenly on full alert as the front door of the edifice opened and two men in black coats exited. _"Viktor and Alexei,"_ he thought to himself. _"Let's see where you're off to."_

And so for the next 48 hours, he found himself following Gretkov's men, finding out their routine and patterns, taking quick naps in the backseat of the stolen car and grabbing a few bites here and there, all the while trying to keep a low profile.

But his investigation was in vain; he gained absolutely nothing from it. He saw no one else but his old associates Viktor and Alexei, FSB agents, traitors like himself, running random errands, no doubt for Gretkov himself. He wondered if he should continue to follow them, debating on whether or not he should just leave it all behind.

At the end, he decided to stay a little while longer.


	4. Getting Rid Of The Evidence

Gretkov glanced at the wall clock. _10:55 p.m._ Soon he would get a call from Dmitry, confirming that the French target had been terminated by Viktor. As predicted, a guard entered the penitentiary lunch room and looked around for Gretkov, signaling with his head once he made eye contact with him. Gretkov rose and followed the guard to the phone cubicles.

He was surprised though, when he picked up the line, to hear the voice of one of his accomplice from the French Interpol instead of his Russian right-hand man.

"You should not contact me here, Antoine," he stated.

"The line is secure, Yuri," Antoine replied in an accented English. "What, you think I would not think of that? Come on. I said I was your lawyer, so they blocked the call," he assured.

"What do you want?" Gretkov retorted. "I'm waiting for a call."

"I just thought you should know that we decoded an e-mail from Maurice's office to his own personal laptop."

Gretkov paused. "The evidence?"

"All of it," Antoine confirmed, and Gretkov cursed silently as he lowered his head, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and fingers.

"We will get it," he replied.

"There is something else, Yuri," Antoine continued. "His daughter is in Moscow, staying at his place. She might get in the way."

"We will get rid of her," Gretkov said without hesitation.

"The Interpol are investigating heavily, Yuri," Antoine added. "And they know Maurice's daughter is in town."

"I said _we will take care of it_," Gretkov stressed, and hung up.

Gretkov nervously tapped his fingers on the table, shaking his head slightly. Godforsaken place. He wanted out of this prison. His men had better come through and get him out. He could not think nor act behind these walls. He hated to delegate and had a hard time fully trusting his associates.

The same guard knocked on the door before entering, gesturing to the phone with his head.

"You have another call," he said in their native Russian. "Line 2. No more tonight," he added insolently and Gretkov grunted.

Gretkov picked up the phone again.

"Dmitry?"

"It's me," Dmitry confirmed.

"Agent Lambert?"

"It's done."

"Good."

"There's something you should know," Dmitry continued.

"What?" Gretkov asked impatiently.

"Kirill's alive," he answered, and Gretkov paused.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive," Dmitry replied. "He survived the crash in the tunnel while Bourne got away. Got treated at the hospital and escaped three days ago. Viktor and Alexei saw him. They think he's been following them for the last two days."

"Following them?" Gretkov retorted. "Contact him and bring him in," he ordered.

"Done."

"I've another job for you," Gretkov added. "Search the French agent's apartment. Look for a laptop with the evidence and destroy it."

"Right."

"Dmitry?" he continued.

"Yeah?"

"His daughter just arrived in Moscow. She's staying at his place. Get rid of her."

"Got it," and he hung up.

Gretkov let out a sigh. Dmitry he could trust. It's the damn Interpol and FSB agents. Cocky and greedy. They would get them all caught if he did not keep them on a tight leach. He had to get out of there.

As soon as he hung up, Dmitry called Viktor and Alexei in to give them their new tasks. When they arrived at Headquarters, he gave them agent Lambert's address and the order to kill his daughter.

"What does she look like? She pretty?" Viktor asked and Alexei chuckled.

"Get rid of her," Dmitry emphasized. "Don't do anything stupid," he added as Viktor rolled his eyes.

"All right. _We got it_," he assured him, and they were gone.

Dmitry watched their receding form as they exited the office and scoffed. _"Damn FSB double agents,"_ he whispered to himself. _"Can't rely on them."_ He picked up the phone again and called his ally.

"Yeah?"

"Igor. It's me," he said.

"Dmitry. Got something else for me?" Igor asked forwardly and Dmitry chuckled.

"I'm sending you Maurice Lambert's address. I just sent Viktor and Alexei there to retrieve something and get rid of his visiting daughter. Make sure it's done," he ordered.

"Right," Igor replied confidently.

"And keep an eye out for Kirill," Dmitry added.

"Kirill? He survived?"

"Yeah."

"And Bourne?"

"Got away."

"Hm... Not a good thing for the CIA," Igor stated.

"Nope. But fuck the CIA. He's not our problem anymore," he retorted and Igor chuckled.

"So, what about Kirill?" he asked Dmitry.

"Viktor and Alexei think he's been following them around. A bit suspicious if you ask me," he replied. "Find him and bring him in."

"Consider it done," Igor confirmed and hung up. He opened the awaiting text message with agent Lambert's address and got in his car.


	5. A Deadly Encounter

So far, everything had been going unruffled. Kirill was yet on another stakeout as he continued to follow Viktor and Alexei, and he had noticed something new; they were following someone. _A woman_, specifically. Average height and weight, long dark hair, always dressed warmly as if she was unused to the Russian winter cold.

They followed her everywhere; to the grocery store, to the park, to the church, and then back to an apartment building which Kirill recognized as an FSB-owned complex. They had parked their car outside, waiting. She seemed to be staying there as she had a key to the place, but she had no car and did not seem to know anyone.

_"Who are you? What do they want with you?"_ Kirill pondered as he waited in his car late one night. He glanced at the time. Almost midnight. He kept his eyes on Viktor and Alexei, sitting in their car and waiting patiently. He noticed that the woman was turning off the lights in the apartment, first the kitchen and then the living room, and then he could see her through the bedroom window.

She took a quick peak outside the window, and Kirill could have sworn he saw streaks of tears on her face. She closed the blinds, and he shamelessly watched her form as she changed in nightclothes and turned off the lights before climbing into bed. And then he waited too, until about an hour after when he noticed Gretkov and Alexei get out of their car. He waited still, waited until the right moment to make his move. He watched them as they picked the door lock and quietly entered the apartment.

He saw them through the windows, silently rummaging through the apartment, turning everything around and upside down. _"What are you looking for?"_ he thought. _"Who lives here?"_ He glimpsed to the bedroom where everything seemed to be still, and then back at the men. He noticed one of them making his way slowly toward the bedroom and noticed the gun in his hand. _"Like hell you are..."_ he thought, and grabbed his extra Walther P99 from his coat pocket as he got out of the car.

As he walked rapidly toward the door, still ajar, he noticed the bedroom light come on and realized that the woman had most likely awoken and heard something.

Then, everything happened as quick as a lightening bolt. The woman screamed as she came face to face with Viktor and heard a gunshot from Kirill's gun as he entered the apartment. Viktor stared at her with wide eyes as he grasped his white shirt, letting his gun fall to the floor, and then glanced down at his chest. It slowly turned red, and Viktor dropped to the floor, lifeless, as the woman let out a loud gasp and impulsively jumped a step backward. Kirill made to move toward Viktor's body to pick up his gun, but he was stopped short when he looked at the woman and noticed that her fearful eyes swiftly shifted from his to slightly behind him.

"_Don't move,_" Alexei hissed, aiming his revolver at Kirill's head from behind, and Kirill cursed silently. "Kirill. Nice to see that you've made it. I heard that Bourne gave you quite a beating," he chuckled. "How the hell did you survive that crash?"

Kirill did not answer right away, and looked at the woman once more who seemed as confused as she was scared. He realized she did not understand a word Alexei had just said. She clearly could not speak Russian. Alexei walked slowly toward Kirill and pushed the tip of his gun in the nape of Kirill's neck.

"Drop it," he ordered, and Kirill obliged. He raised his right hand and dropped the revolver all the while still looking into the woman's tearful eyes. And then he spoke.

"Did Gretkov send you here?" he asked Alexei, and when he did not answer, he continued in a controlled but commanding voice. "What are you looking for? Who is she?"

"She's from France, the daughter of an Interpol agent. This is his place," Alexei replied.

"Why kill her?" Kirill continued, and Alexei chuckled.

"Because we were told to," he simply answered. "A shame, isn't? She's quite a looker," he continued, and Kirill knew the woman realized they were talking about her. "You shouldn't have done that, you know," Alexei referred to Viktor. "Now I'm gonna have to kill you too. Is that a problem?" he asked nonchalantly.

"Yes," Kirill simply retorted, and the woman let out a deafening shriek as another gunshot resounded in the apartment.

Alexei backed a few paces and dropped his gun on the floor before falling on his knees, and then landed on the floor with a loud thud. Kirill glanced down and slightly behind him on his right hand side, and let out a barely audible _"Damn"_ as he saw the hole he had made in his jacket with the Walther P5 Compact he held with his left hand, pointed at Alexei all this time.

He then bent to pick up Alexei's revolver and when he turned around to pick up Viktor's, he came face to face with the barrel of a gun pointed at his face. Viktor's gun. Which the woman had picked up while he was grabbing Alexei's. Not blinking, he kept completely still. He knew she was nervous and making a sudden movement could possibly be fatal for him.

"Drop them," she nervously ordered, speaking for the first time. Her voice was hoarse, and she was shaking like a leaf. "Drop the guns!" she repeated more forcefully, and Kirill did as he was told, slowly bending his knees to deposit them on the floor and rising again. "Do you speak English?" she asked. "Because I don't speak Russian," she added.

"Yes," Kirill simply answered.

"Who are you?" she continued quickly. "Why are you here? Who are they?" she gestured at the dead men's bodies with her head, and then she took a look around, noticing the cluttered apartment for the first time. "_What were they looking for?_" she whispered, and Kirill took the opportunity that she seemed distracted to grab the gun from her hand.

She jumped momentarily but then started to run toward the door. Kirill quickly grabbed her arm to stop her and she let out a soft whimper.

"We have to leave," he simply said, and she struggled to free herself. He let go of her so she wouldn't hurt herself, or him, and she rubbed her arm as she looked worriedly at him.

"Why?" she asked, and he just stared at her, studying her.

"What do you have that they want?" he asked, and he saw her face subtly change expressions from innocent to knowing. "We have to go," he stated, and she just stared at him. "Now," he stressed, and she shook her head.

"I'm not going anywhere with you," she replied, just above a whisper. "How do I know you're not one of them and try to kill me later?" she asked boldly.

"I just saved your life," he retorted, and she looked pensive. "Do you know what they were looking for?" he continued.

"Yes, I think so," she replied, and she walked toward the bedroom. Kirill waited, and she returned shortly with a laptop in her hands. "This is my father's," she said, handing it over to him. "When I got here two days ago, I found it locked in his desk. He had sent me the key. When I opened it, I saw some names, dates, faces... some I recognize from my father's work. But nothing of it makes sense to me," she explained. "I've no idea what it's all about."

Kirill opened it and took a quick look at the files. Names. _Yuri Gretkov. Dmitry Kuzenkova. Igor Golubev_. The heist. _100 million dollars_. The conspiracy. _The assassination of Nikolay Gorbachyov_. FSB agents. _Viktor Petrovin. Alexei Ivanov_. And names he did not recognize. _Interpol agents_. As he went through the names, he looked at her briefly.

"Who's your father?" he asked her. "Where is he?" And he noticed tears forming in her eyes again.

"_He was killed,_" she whispered, and angrily wiped her tears away with her fingers. She turned her back to him and walked toward the window, wearily glancing outside, unconsciously looking for some kind of danger. "A week ago," she continued. "He had left me a note with keys, telling me to come here, to get something," she explained and she turned back toward him. "I think I'm meant to bring that to the Interpol," she gestured toward the laptop with her head. "And there's only one person I can trust. If there are traitors in the Interpol, I can't risk e-mailing or faxing the files. If they get in the wrong hands, the whole thing will be blown. I have to bring my dad's laptop directly to the Secretary General."

"Let's go," he simply retorted and closed the laptop as he started to make his way toward the door. He stopped, and turned toward her when he noticed she did not follow. "I'll take you where you need to go," he stated in a neutral tone, and she blinked a few times. "Safely," he added forcefully, and she nodded before quickly making her way to the bedroom and washroom to pick up her personal belongings.

As she came out of the washroom and glanced around the apartment one last time, a dark purple leather duffel bag hanging from her shoulder, she shook her head slowly.

"My father's death wasn't an accident, was it," she suggested more than asked. "Do you know who killed my father?" she asked softly. "Was it them?" she gestured toward Viktor and Alexei.

"Possibly," Kirill simply answered. "Let's go," he added, and she nodded.

"What about the bodies?" she asked suddenly, stopping for a second and realizing the situation. "You're just gonna leave them there?"

"Yes," he retorted, and glanced around himself. "It doesn't make any difference. When he finds out, he's gonna send more after you," he explained.

"Who's he?" she asked nervously as she followed Kirill to the car parked a couple of blocks away. She did not question the car, but she did take a good look at it with a raised eyebrow and a suspicious expression as she turned to look at him. _"Don't ask,"_ he seemed to reply with a look, and she just shrugged it off in indifference.

"Yuri Gretkov," he answered as he got in the car, lightly tossing the laptop in the backseat, and she tensed as she sat in the front passenger seat, slightly turning to dump her bag in the backseat as well.

"I recognize that name from the files," she said as he turned on the engine and put the car in gear.

"He's the mastermind," he simply explained, and she let out a barely discernible _"Right"_ as Kirill pulled onto the street. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye and saw her rub her arm at the spot where he had grabbed her. She looked at him, noticing that he was looking at her, and she shot him her most impassive glare.

"It's probably gonna bruise," she retorted, and he swiftly looked at her. "I'll live," she added, and he cleared his throat as he turned back to the front. "So," she continued. "Kirill, right? I heard one of them call you that." He didn't answer. He just kept looking at the road. "I'm Catherine," she added, and he looked at her briefly.

When he still did not reply, she took this as a clear sign that he did not feel like conversing, or get to know her better, so she let her head fall backwards on the headrest and closed her eyes.

Kirill took another quick glimpse at her, and he slightly shook his head as he tiredly rubbed his face with his free hand. _"What the hell have I gotten myself into,"_ he thought as he drove away from the apartment, unknowingly away from Igor who had just arrived.


	6. Making Parole Or Not

As Igor entered the apartment and saw the bodies of Viktor and Alexei, he searched throughout the place and then contacted Dmitry.

"What the hell do you mean, Viktor and Alexei are dead... Are you serious?" Dmitry asked from his end of the phone line, fuming. "Where the hell were you?" he asked Igor.

"Too late," Igor replied, unperturbed. "The girl's gone, and I couldn't find the laptop," he continued, and he heard Dmitry grunt. "I'll clean up here," he added.

"And then find her and get rid of her," he ordered Igor. "And the evidence." And he paused a second before continuing. "She had help," Dmitry said as an afterthought. "She can't have done that by herself." And Igor agreed.

"Kirill?" he implied, and Dmitry sighed audibly.

"Probably," he finally answered. "Contact Antoine in France. Tell him to keep an eye out for them at agent Lambert's home as well. It's possible his daughter will return there. Tell him to kill the girl and bring Kirill in if you haven't done it beforehand."

"Consider it done," Igor replied in his arrogant way, and Dmitry grunted.

"I've heard that before," he retorted, and hung up.

Igor chuckled as he turned off his phone and got in his car, driving to his apartment to get the few things he was going to need over the next few days. He had a feeling they were going to be long, tiring and dangerous. He knew Kirill would be an excellent adversary. He could already feel the adrenaline pumping.

Dmitry did not look forward to his next call to Yuri. He was reluctant to tell him that Kirill had gone vigilante. Kirill was, after all, his best asset. Fearless, accurate, emotionless. He had finally met his match in Jason Bourne, and he had been defeated. But somehow he had survived, and had decided to grow a conscious and try to set things right.

_"Big mistake,_" Dmitry contemplated as the phone rang and he waited for Gretkov to answer. _"Yuri's going to destroy you."_

The line clicked and Gretkov answered.

"Dmitry?"

"It's me," Dmitry confirmed.

"You better have good news," he stressed.

"Sorry," he answered, and Gretkov sighed as he rubbed his forehead. "Viktor and Alexei are dead, the girl got away, and Igor couldn't find the files," he explained.

"And?" Gretkov retorted, sensing that Dmitry was not done.

"And we think Kirill is helping her," he added. He could hear Gretkov breathe roughly.

"What are you doing about it?"

"I sent Igor after them," Dmitry replied.

"Good," Gretkov retorted, and he paused for a bit. "Those files cannot get in the hands of the Interpol," he continued. "If I don't make parole, I will send them to get you so you can join me here, Dmitry," he threatened, and Dmitry chuckled.

"I don't doubt that," he retorted.

"And _Kirill_," Gretkov hissed. "He has to be debriefed," he stressed, and Dmitry paused.

"We'll bring him in," he confirmed, and paused. "Why would he help her?" he asked as an afterthought.

"You can't think of a reason?" Gretkov asked in a sarcastic manner, and Dmitry paused again.

"You think he knows?" he asked after a while.

"I can't be sure, but I can't risk it," he simply replied.

"What if he comes for you before we find him?" Dmitry asked curiously.

"He won't," Gretkov replied. "He's too smart," he continued. "He'll wait at the right moment to strike."

"We'll be ready," Dmitry confidently assured him.

"You better," Gretkov retorted, and paused. "How are the parole papers coming along?"

"Everything's going according to plan," Dmitry replied, and then paused. "The FSB is all over Viktor and Alexei's assassinations."

"Good. Kirill was actually an asset," Gretkov retorted. "Unknowingly," he added, and Dmitry chuckled. "Make it look like it was just them; keeping us clear of it."

"Done," Dmitry replied, and hung up.

He turned off his phone, set it on his desk, and sighed loudly as he rubbed his temples with his fingers. He rose from his chair, deciding that he would take a drive by agent Lambert's apartment to see to it that Igor had indeed taken care of things there.


	7. Getting To Know Kirill

Catherine woke with a start and realized that the car's engine was turned off, and they were parked in front of some kind of government building. And she was alone in the car. She turned around and noticed that the laptop was still in the backseat, as was her bag, but it had been opened. She frowned and reached for it, and realized while looking carefully through her stuff that only her passport was missing.

As if she was not puzzled enough, this only added to her confusion. And, as if by instinctive reflex, she tried opening the door and found that she was not locked inside. She shut the door again and glanced at the ignition, seeing that he had left the key in it. She stared curiously at the front door of the building, frowning and completely baffled. "_What the hell's going on,_" she muttered. _"Where is he?"_ she thought.

Sitting by herself, after all that had transpired in her father's apartment, she was finally able to realize the weight of the situation. She nervously glanced around the neighborhood, but found that it was indeed silent and peaceful. She could hear dogs bark nearby and she unconsciously reached to lock the doors, but a movement at the front of the building caught her attention so she lowered her hand again.

Kirill could feel her eyes on him all the way from the front door to the car. When he got in, she was still staring at him. He turned the ignition on and backed the car in the street. And she was still staring at him. When she resolved that he would not speak, she huffed loudly.

"What was that place?" she simply asked finally.

"FSB secret headquarters," he answered without looking at her.

"_Right,_" she retorted, muttering. "So... I suppose you're an FSB agent? Did you tell them what's going on? Are they gonna help us?"

But he didn't answer and just kept staring at the road. It was the middle of the night, and it had started snowing lightly, making the drive more of a drab. And Catherine was losing her patience. She slightly turned and twisted her upper body in her seat so as to face him, and she stared straight at him.

"Listen," she started. "If I am to _trust_ you, you're gonna have to talk more. You're driving me crazy," she continued. "I want to know what's the plan." But he still did not answer. He simply reached inside his coat pocket, took something out and tossed it on her lap. Catherine stared at him curiously, and looked down on her lap to see a passport. She picked it up and opened it. It had her picture in it, but nothing else was accurate. Not the name, nor the birth date, and neither the nationality. Nothing.

"_Danielle Burke?_" she thought out loud. "What's this about?" she asked as she waved the passport by his face. "My new identity?" Kirill still did not answer and kept staring at the front.

Catherine lost it. She buried her head in her hands resting on her knees, let out a frustrated growl, and then took a deep breath.

"All right," she said as she sat up straight once more and let out a long sigh. "I get it. I get this. A secret identity," she resolved. "It's for my protection. It completely makes sense," she acknowledged. "But please, _please_," she begged. "Tell me about yourself. I just have to know more about you. There are bloody patches on your jacket, and from the looks of it, it's been there for a few days now, your face looks like it's been hit by a meteor, and you're so damn _silent_," she pleaded. "You're making me nervous," and she jumped slightly when he talked.

"We'll stop for the night," he said. Catherine stared at him for a few seconds before answering.

"Thank you," she finally retorted.

Kirill pulled over at a roadside motel in the suburbs of Moscow and turned off the engine. He grabbed the laptop while Catherine grabbed her bag, and when Kirill got out, he popped the trunk and took out his own black duffel bag. He checked them in a room as Catherine waited slightly behind him, and then followed him to their room.

Once inside, he shut the door behind her and locked it, and she just stood there, motionless, following him with her eyes. He threw his bag on the sofa, checked the washroom, glanced outside the window, and closed the curtains. He removed his dark brown leather overcoat, set it on the back of the same sofa, leaving him in a thin black shirt. He removed his gun from his shoulder gun holsters and put it behind his back, under his shirt.

Catherine continued to observe him, silently, and he did not seem to be bothered by it. He just went on with his business without saying a word. She decided she should do the same, and so she slowly made her way to the bed, tossing her bag on the floor beside it. She removed her white, knee-length overcoat, and set it at the foot of the bed. She grabbed an extra pillow and bed cover and gave them to him as he walked by her. He willingly took them, and tossed them on the sofa. She sat on the bed with her legs hanging on the side, purposefully testing its "bounciness", and glanced back at Kirill who had opened his bag and was going through it.

"How did you know I wasn't going to take off with your car and leave you at that place?" she asked him after a while, and he continued taking items out of his bag; a passport, cash, bullet clips, another gun that he set on a table in the corner...

"You're alone and afraid," he replied. "You seem to have a good head on your shoulders," he added, and she did not answer for a while.

"So, is the FSB gonna help us?" she asked, hopeful, but he just looked at her briefly.

"You remember Viktor and Alexei?" he asked her, resuming his rummaging through his bag, and she just stared at him with a questioning look. He glanced back at her and caught the look. "The assassins at your father's apartment," he patiently clarified. "They're FSB," he explained, and she shook her head as she sighed.

"And you?"

"The same," he replied, and she raised an eyebrow.

"Let me guess... You're good and they're bad?" She spoke cynically, and he glanced at her.

"They work for Yuri Gretkov," and Catherine nodded.

"He was arrested a couple of days ago...," she stated. "Something about a heist with a double CIA agent." She paused. "_Abbott Ward,_" she added as an afterthought, and Kirill looked at her questioningly. "I read about it in the newspapers," she explained. "He was found murdered in a motel," she continued.

"Shot himself," Kirill corrected her.

"What?" she exclaimed, and then lowered her voice, shaking her head slowly. "_Jesus Christ..._"

"We can't trust the FSB," he told her. "We're on our own," he continued, and she just nodded understandingly. "Get some sleep," he nodded toward the bed as he himself settled on the sofa.

Catherine did not argue. She was tired, her head was starting to hurt, and she needed to sleep. Even though she was somewhat a little less perplexed about Kirill, she still had a few things she wanted to ask him, but she was too tired. It would have to wait until the morning.

And to Catherine's chagrin, morning came a bit too fast. It seemed that as soon as she settled in the bed, let her head fall on the pillow and fell asleep, the first rays of sunshine peaked through the window curtains. She groaned as she turned around, facing the sofa, and she noticed Kirill was still sleeping. "Well, at least one of us is resting," she complained silently, and rose from the bed.

She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, ran her fingers in her hair to tidy them up a bit, and dressed in the same clothes that she had worn the day before. She very much wanted to take a warm and relaxing shower, but she still had absolutely no idea of Kirill's plans and thought that he might want to leave as soon as he woke. So she waited.

And waited. After about ten minutes, she still did not see him stir, and so she rose from the chair beside the table in the corner and paced the room purposelessly. Until she came upon his bag on the floor next to the sofa. Glancing down at it and noticing it was open, she bit her bottom lip and hesitated. What better way to find out more about him than looking through his personal belongings? She did not think twice, and bent down to pick up the bag.

She carried it to the corner table on which she set it and sat in the chair again. Picking up items from the bag, she examined them; the guns he had taken from the assassins, "_Viktor and Alexei,_" she spitted out their names, a few passports, all with his picture but with different names, "_not surprising,_" she muttered, a few articles of clothing, all dark. She frowned and shook her head. And then, at the very bottom of the bag beneath the clothes, she saw the cutout of a recent newspaper article. Grasping it, she gasped as she saw what was on it.

"What are you doing?"

She jumped when she heard Kirill's voice, her fingers tightening on the newspaper clipping. Knowing very well what she had found, Kirill glanced briefly at it, seeing his picture alongside Gretkov's over an article about his association with him. He then looked back up at Catherine. From the corner of her eye, Catherine could see the gun that Kirill had left on the table the night before. She swiftly reached for it, and pointed it at Kirill's head. Kirill didn't even flinch.

"That _assassin_... back at the apartment. He knew your name," she stated, her voice shaky. "You work for Gretkov too?" she asked. Kirill remained silent. "When were you planning on telling me?" she continued. "Before you killed me?"

"Worked," Kirill simply replied, and Catherine blinked.

"What?" she retorted, frowning.

"I _worked _for Gretkov," he repeated.

"Is that suppose to make me feel better?" she asked after a brief moment. And Kirill rose from his sitting position on the sofa, making Catherine take a step backward, cocking the gun.

"Don't come closer," she warned him. "Did you have anything to do with my father's murder?" she asked him furiously, but Kirill remained calm.

"My last target was last week; a rogue CIA agent." He paused. "I chased him in Moscow and crashed in a tunnel." Another pause. Catherine continued to stare at him, but her look had become softer. "I woke up in hospital the next day, escaped, followed Gretkov's men, and ended up helping you," he explained, and he saw Catherine relax somewhat as she lowered her gun.

She was obviously starting to believe him, and she seemed to want to know more. It was the most he had ever spoken since their unusual meeting, and she did not want him to stop. So he braced himself for her questioning, deciding that he would not hold back.

"Why?" she simply asked, and he was a bit confused.

"What?" he retorted.

"Why turn your back on Gretkov?... What's he done to you that you'd go against him?... Why help me?..." Her questions were well thought of, small pauses between each of them, and she spoke very clearly.

"We have something in common," he simply answered, and she stared at him, blinking a few times.

He walked toward her and reached for his bag as she took a sidestep to get out of his way, and he took out a single picture, setting it on the table. Catherine averted her gaze from him to the table and looked at it, still keeping a hold on the gun. It was the picture of a couple in their mid to late 40's; a very beautiful, dark woman, and a handsome man, who Catherine realized somewhat resembled Kirill.

"My parents were killed over ten years ago," he continued as he absentmindedly glanced at the window. "Car accident," he added. "I watched my mother die on the operating table," He paused a bit. "My father was an FSB agent; investigating some conspiracy. And Gretkov was the main suspect." He explained in a very grave voice. "I know what Gretkov is capable of."

"But why work for him after your parents' death?" Catherine asked curiously. "What were you trying to do? Get yourself killed too?"

"I knew what I wanted to do," he replied after a brief pause. "I just didn't know how. I became an FSB agent, trained as an assassin, and after a few years, I traced down Gretkov and approached him. He knew who I was, he knew who my parents were, but he never admitted to killing them. I convinced him to take me in because I needed the money. I remained an FSB agent, but I worked for him as well. He gave me faces and places, and I just did my job."

"How?" Catherine asked as she shook her head. "How could you kill like that over and over?"

"By pulling the trigger," Kirill simply replied, and she kept shaking her head. "You just do it. No questions asked. You don't know the name of your target unless you absolutely need to. They're just faces, enemies."

"Are you sorry you did it?" she asked quietly, and he paused.

"I'm... not sure," he replied. "It's all a blur. Not a reality." He paused. "It was a lifestyle. A double life." And she nodded. Kirill found her surprisingly understanding.

"Can you prove all this to me?" she asked after a few seconds, and Kirill raised an eyebrow.

"No," he simply answered, and he waited.

"Doesn't matter," she replied. "I trust you. I believe you." And she smiled slightly as she set the gun on the table.

Kirill was somewhat relieved; he felt lighter, like a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He was glad he had told her everything, and he noticed Catherine was a lot more at ease around him from that moment on.


	8. The Investigation Pursues

"Watson!" Secretary General Barry Evans of the Lyon Interpol Headquarters bellowed as agent Nicholas Watson was passing by his office.

Watson peaked his head inside his chief's office. "Sir?"

"Come in," he gestured with his hand. "Close the door." And Watson did as he was told.

Evans rose from his chair and walked around his desk, stopping to lean on the corner of it.

"Agent Lambert's daughter..." he started as Watson listened in. "How was she when you gave her the news?" Watson blinked.

"She was sad, sir," he replied. "As anyone would be when told that your father died."

"Of course." He looked pensive.

'Sir?"

"This report just came in from the office of Director Kovalev of the FSB." He passed the files to Watson who opened it and scanned the pages. "Two FSB special agents were shot dead in agent Lambert's apartment in Moscow last night," he stated, and Watson blinked in surprise. "She had been staying there for the last two days," he added, and Watson stared at him.

"Is she a suspect?" he asked incredulously.

"Not likely," his chief replied. "But they do believe she was involved."

"Involved?" Watson retorted. "What were the agents doing there in the first place?" he asked curiously, and Evans shrugged.

"Who knows. Visiting her? Checking on her?", he simply answered. "Doesn't matter anyway. They're dead now, and she's missing."

"Missing," Watson repeated. "You think maybe she's unstable? Blaming the FSB for her father's death?"

"Probably," he replied. "But murdering special agents?" he added. "Just seems unlikely."

"So, what's the FSB making of all of this?"

"That's the thing," Evans said. "They don't know what to make of it. That's why they came to us."

"And what are we doing about it?" he pressed on, growing more and more curious about all this.

"Well," the chief started. "Are you familiar with the name Yuri Gretkov?" he asked Watson who nodded briefly.

"Sure," he simply answered. "Everyone is. He was involved in the whole Jason Bourne disaster. We've all been following that case," and Evans nodded.

"Right. Well, I wouldn't be surprised if he was somehow involved with this," he explained.

"That would make sense," Watson agreed. Barry Evans was experienced, and very intelligent. He usually came up with very good theories all the time. "And what... those two agents would have had something on him so he had them assassinated? He's already in jail. What could he possibly do more from behind bars?" and Evans lifted his index finger.

"Ah, don't underestimate a greedy Russian capitalist, Watson." He rose from his leaning position on the desk and walked toward the window, crossing his arms on his chest as he glanced outside. "He probably still has men working for him outside the prison. Hell, he probably has men working for him _inside _the prison," he explained. "Maybe he was in the middle of another heist, perhaps involving the FSB, and those two agents were working for him."

"Double agents," Watson added. "That's a good theory, sir," he agreed. "So, who would murder them? Other FSB agents who discovered the heist?"

"Hm... I think we would have heard something by now if that were the case," he replied pensively. "I think maybe someone could be out to get Gretkov. Trying to _expose _him, so to speak."

"How?"

"The girl, Lambert's daughter. She was staying there, in that apartment where the agents were found."

"Right," Watson said, listening carefully.

"She was in possession of something, or was aware of some kind of information... Her father was killed, but he relayed what he knew to his daughter. And they found out, so they set out to kill her."

"Sure."

"And then someone came along and helped her," he concluded. "Someone very experienced," he clarified.

"A rogue FSB agent? Or CIA? Holy shit, could be Jason Bourne!" And the chief actually chuckled.

"Not likely," he retorted. "But that would be... interesting," he said as an afterthought, and Watson chucked as well. "The FSB mentions in the report that they might have a rogue themselves, a double FSB agent gone haywire," he continued. "He's known only as Kirill."

"That name sounds familiar..." Watson said pensively.

"It should," Evans replied. "He worked for Gretkov during the CIA heist. He's the assassin who was sent to India to terminate Jason Bourne but killed Bourne's girlfriend instead," he explained. "Kirill was critically injured after a high speed car chase with Bourne in Moscow, but he escaped the hospital and hasn't been seen since."

"All right. So we assume that he's the one who's helping Lambert's daughter," Watson added to his chief's theory. "Why?"

"Good question," Evans simply replied. "That's what I need you to find out," he continued with a lopsided grin, and Watson grunted.

"_I was afraid of that,_" he murmured, and Evans chuckled again. "I'll get on it right away, chief," he assured him.

"Good," Evans simply replied as Watson left his office.


	9. Leaving Moscow

Catherine was grateful that Kirill had let her freshen up. She had never felt so good after a hot shower. She had put on clean clothes, warm clothes as she was still not used to the cold, she had let her hair down as she was tired of having it in a ponytail as she had for the past two days, and she had even took an extra five minutes to put on a bit of make-up. She had noticed that Kirill had changed too, still in dark clothes, but at least he was not wearing his bloody brown leather overcoat. And, driving away from the motel, she realized where they were going and knew why Kirill had thought it important that they looked _normal_.

The Sheremetyevo International Airport was the same as it was when she had first arrived in Moscow a few days ago; boisterous and packed with people. Agitated tourists, rushed business people, tired children crying and impatient parents... Catherine could already feel the first throbbing of a headache. She hated airports, hated crowds. She always had. The flying she did not mind; it was the process of getting into a plane that irritated her.

But Kirill was solid. He guided her through the crowd, gently with a hand behind her lower back, and Catherine imagined that they just looked like a normal traveling couple. She noticed, though, that he would tense when passing security guards or suspicious looking men in suits, but they went through the gate without any problem, and she started slightly when the boarding stewardess called her by the name of _Miss Burke_. But she recovered quickly and gave the woman a confident and relaxed smile.

Once in their seats, she relaxed and accepted a bottle of cold water from the stewardess, and as the plane took off, she closed her eyes and relaxed, relieved that her headache was ebbing away.

Kirill stayed alert; eyeing every suspicious suit. Long service and experience told him that something was not right. And when the pilot announced that they were making an emergency landing in Prague, he had a strong suspicion that they were the cause of this _emergency_.

As soon as they landed and the stewardess politely asked all the passengers to stay seated, assuring them that the delay would not be long, Kirill grabbed Catherine's arm and gestured with his head to get up from her seat. She immediately understood his sudden decision to leave, grabbed her duffel bag from the overhead compartment as he did the same, and they made their way to the exit.

"Oh no, sir, miss," the stewardess said, putting her hands in front of her, palms outward, in an attempt to stop them. "It won't be long," she continued. "Please, remain in your seats." But Kirill did not stop. The stewardess looked at Catherine in a somewhat anxious way, and Catherine knew that Kirill would less than likely be cooperative.

"You know what, ma'am?" Catherine started, smiling casually. "I just told my boyfriend here that I've never visited Prague, and so we thought that as long as we're here, we might as well get off and stay for a visit," she convincingly made-up while Kirill stayed behind her with a neutral expression on his face, and the stewardess wearily looked from Catherine to Kirill, and back to Catherine.

"Well, it is a bit unusual," she started uncertainly, and Catherine felt Kirill tense while she just kept her relaxed facade. "But I suppose it is possible," she continued, and Catherine smiled graciously. "You just make sure to mention to the checkout agent that your scheduled landing was in Lyon," she ordered, and Catherine nodded.

"Of course," she replied. "Thank-you. And sorry for the inconvenience," she added, and the stewardess smiled.

"Not at all," she assured Catherine. "You have a pleasant stay in Prague, miss," and she turned to Kirill. "Sir." Kirill nodded briefly, took Catherine's hand and exited the plane briskly.

Catherine did as they were told when they passed the checkout counter, and once again Kirill guided her through the crowded terminal.

"That was good," she heard him say in his usual indifferent voice, and she smiled slightly.

"Thanks," she simply replied, but Kirill did not hear her.

He suddenly moved his hand from the bottom of her back to her arm and gripped it. She heard him curse under his breath in Russian, and she immediately went taut herself.

"_What?_" she whispered, and he quickly diverted them from their course, in a side-way hall leading outside, away from the main entrance of the terminal.

"We're being followed," he stated, and she gasped silently.

"_Where?_" she breathed, quickening her steps in order to keep up with his long strides.

"3 o'clock," he replied sharply. "Black suit, dark glasses," he added.

Catherine lifted a hand to her hair as if to comb her fingers through, and slightly turned her head to the right. She immediately spotted him in the crowd. He was talking on a cell phone and looking right at them, and Catherine swiftly turned her head toward the front again.

"_Shit, he's looking at us,_" she whispered nervously. "_Who is he?_"

"One of Gretkov's," Kirill simply replied. _"Igor,"_ he thought to himself. But she did not need to know his name. "He was on the flight," he added.

"_Oh, God..._" Catherine breathed.

They were near the exit, but Igor was gaining on them. Catherine's heart was pounding, and she was practically running to keep up with Kirill, silently cursing her wretched beige leather knee-high, high-heeled boots. Once they were outside, she squinted her eyes as the sun shone bright, and Kirill reached inside his jacket for a pair of sunglasses. They walked toward a cab and Kirill lifted a hand to signal it, opening the back door to let Catherine in. But, as she got in the cab, she heard a woman scream and Kirill turned around briskly.

She looked toward the commotion, and she saw the man with a gun in his hand, aimed toward them.

"Kirill!" she gasped as she grasped his arm, but Kirill shook her off and reached for his revolver inside his jacket.

A gunshot resounded, and Kirill grunted as the bullet grazed his arm and he was thrown back against the cab. Catherine let out a sharp scream and bent in half in the cab, hiding her head with her arms. Kirill lifted his gun again, aimed, and shot Igor in the forehead. Men scrambled away and women continued to scream.

Catherine swiftly lifted her head, despite the dizziness, while Kirill quickly rounded the car from the front, holding his left arm with his right hand while still firmly holding the gun. He shouted something to the cabdriver that Catherine did not perceive, but the cabdriver clearly seemed to have understood as he opened the door and got out, keeping out of Kirill's way. Kirill quickly got in the driver's seat, tossed his gun on the passenger side, and Catherine reached to close the door.

Kirill stepped on the gas and the tires screeched as they left the airport terminal, and Catherine held the headrest of the front passenger seat as the car swirled around other cars and pedestrians. Kirill kept his eyes fixed at the front, and Catherine kept silent so as not to disturb him. When they finally made it to the freeway, she relaxed but leaned to the front, between the two front seats.

"Where do we go now?" she asked, concerned.

"We'll take the train to France," he quickly answered, and she nodded, glancing at his right hand holding the steering wheel and noticing the blood.

"You're bleeding," she stated, and he glanced at her in the rearview mirror. She looked in his eyes, but he swiftly diverted them to the front once again.

"My left arm," he replied, and she could not think of anything else to say, so she settled back in her seat and looked at his eyes in the mirror for a few seconds before turning her head to the side, to look outside the car window. Feeling quite uneasy, she found herself fighting back tears that stung the back of her eyes, not noticing that Kirill was watching her in the mirror.

He took them to the station, and they boarded the train to Lyon after waiting for about a half hour or so. Once settled in their seats, Kirill left her alone and made his way to the restrooms where he found a first-aid kit in one of the cupboards inside. Removing his jacket and lifting his shirt above the bullet wound, slowly, he assessed the damage and realized that the cut was opened. He searched the kit for a needle and string, and struggled a bit to thread the needle.

Just then, Catherine hesitantly pushed open the restroom door that he had left slightly ajar and entered, closing it tightly behind her. She turned and faced him, and he looked doubtful. Without a word, she took the needle from his hands and skillfully threaded it. She set it on the counter, and, reaching for his arm, she pulled the sleeve back down. He kept looking at her, but she did not say anything and just kept concentrating on the task at hand. She lifted his arm and started removing his sleeve, cautiously, and he bent his arm a bit so she could pull it all the way. She noticed goose bumps on his exposed arm and half of his torso, and it made her smile slightly.

With his arm now free, she reached for a bottle of disinfectant and poured a generous quantity on a gauze. He made a slight face when she started cleaning the wound, but he did not make any sound. She took her time, making sure to wipe all the blood, until the skin was a light pinkish color. She tossed the soiled gauze in the waste bin, and reached for the needle. She rubbed the skin around the area with her thumbs before piercing the skin, and closed the wound with proficient ease. Kirill kept a placid face all along, but when she was done, she noticed beads of sweat on his forehead. He looked at her reflection on the wall mirror, and again she smiled slightly when she made eye contact.

"My mother was a nurse," she simply said, but he did not reply.

She smiled again, and exited the restroom to leave him alone once again.


	10. Things Are Not Going As Planned

"It's already all over the news," Dmitry informed Gretkov. "There was a Czech reporter at the scene when it happened. He says he saw the shooter and a woman leave in a cab, but they weren't followed so no one knows where they went," he explained. He could hear Gretkov breathe loudly.

"Did he give a description of the shooter?" Gretkov asked.

"Tall, dark hair, black jacket," Dmitry replied.

"_Kirill,_" Gretkov retorted.

"Yeah," Dmitry confirmed. "Igor called me on his cell phone before he was shot," he explained. "He was on the same flight and followed them through the terminal." And he paused. "The FSB is going public. They're distributing photos of them to the local police and the Interpol," he continued. "They're linking Kirill to Viktor and Alexei too." Gretkov swore under his breath.

"And Kirill is linked to me," he added angrily.

"And they're implying that Kirill kidnapped Lambert's daughter to use as leverage," Dmitry continued and waited.

"This is going to work against me, Dmitry," Gretkov said after a while. "They still think Kirill is working for me. This investigation is going to delay my parole hearing," he stated. "Have you contacted Antoine?"

"Yes," Dmitry answered. "He's surveying Lambert's house in Lyon."

"We can't fail again," Gretkov hissed.

"Right," Dmitry retorted, and Gretkov hung up.

Dmitry stared out the window at the Gretkov Headquarters, rubbing his hand over the stubble of his cheeks and chin. Things were not going as planned; his partner Igor was dead, their FSB allies Viktor and Alexei were dead, Kirill was out to get Gretkov, and, by the looks of it, the whole heist was failing miserably. And, on top of that, he had to prepare for the worst: Sooner or later, he was going to join Gretkov in prison.

Shaking his head, he let out a frustrated sigh, and picked up his cell phone again. He dialed Antoine's number and waited for him to pick up.

"Agent Thibault," Antoine answered in French.

"Antoine," Dmitry replied. "It's me."

"_Dmitry,_" Antoine whispered, replying in English, slouching low in his office chair. "I'm at my office. What's up?"

"The target's on his way to Lyon," he stated. "With Lambert's daughter."

"You sure?" Antoine asked, still speaking in a low voice, glancing around his cubicle at the Lyon Interpol Headquarters.

"Positive," Dmitry answered. "Igor's dead."

"I know," Antoine replied. "It's all over the news. You sure it was Kirill?"

"Yeah. It's looking bad, Antoine," Dmitry stressed. "You can't let the files reach your chief. Gretkov's panicking. He's convinced that Kirill's out to get him."

"_Shit,_" Antoine breathed. "Evans all over it. He has Nicholas Watson checking Kirill's background."

"Watson?" Dmitry retorted incredulously. "_Damn..._" he cursed silently. "If they find the link between Kirill's parents and Yuri, they're gonna know for sure he's trying to take down Gretkov."

"I know," Antoine agreed. "_Shit..._" Antoine whispered. "_Evans coming this way. I've to go. I'll contact you later._" And hung up.

"Thibault!" chief Evans called as he approached Antoine's cubicle, followed closely by agent Nicholas Watson. "Watson here hacked into an FSB file bank and found something on this Kirill assassin," he stated, and Antoine gave Nicholas an odd look, which Nicholas returned. "Seems about a decade ago his parents were killed and Gretkov had something to do with it," he continued.

"Really," Antoine replied. "Interesting. So now what?" he asked.

"I'm putting you on the case with Watson. Contact the FSB and let them know what we found," he ordered and Antoine nodded.

"You think this is all related, chief?" he asked curiously and Evans looked pensive for a moment.

"Yes I do," he simply replied, and paused before explaining. "I think agent Lambert was murdered because he found out it was Gretkov behind the stolen money, that the two dead agents at his apartment were working for Gretkov, that Miss Lambert was attacked because she knew something, that the assassin saved her and is helping her _and_ that they're on their way here with proof of the whole conspiracy," he concluded, and Nicholas grinned as Antoine nodded, impressed.

"Jesus..." he started. "That's good, chief," he grinned and glanced at Nicholas, then back at Evans. "So you don't believe he kidnapped her?", he continued.

"Not likely," Evans answered. "This is Kirill's revenge," he explained. "He's helping Miss Lambert expose Gretkov as revenge. He's probably waited a long time for this."

"All right then," Antoine said as he rose from his chair and looked at Nicholas. "Let's go!"

Evans watched his two men walk away for a moment before returning to his office, the whole thing playing over and over in his mind. Once he was sitting in his chair behind his desk, he glanced outside the window, a pensive look on his face.

_"Where are you Catherine?"_ he whispered. _"Are you alright?" _he asked himself as he thought of his dear old friend Maurice. He and Maurice Lambert went back a long way, back to the Police Academy, and he had always thought of him as a brother, Catherine becoming like a niece to him. Ever since he had learned of Maurice's death, he had been devastated. And then when he heard about Catherine's disappearance from Moscow, he had been worried sick about her. He never spoke of his worries to anyone, not wanting his emotions to get in the way of the investigation, but deep down, he hoped that sooner or later she would show up, safe and sound. And with some kind of evidence to support his theories.


	11. Another Close Call

Catherine found her father's house just as she left it. It felt different, for obvious reasons, but she was glad to be home. They had arrived late in the afternoon two days after setting out from Moscow, and she had cooked them a nice, warm home-cooked meal. Kirill never said anything, not that she expected him too, but she could tell he was thankful.

She had showed him to a spare bedroom in which he could settle for the night, and she had taken another warm and relaxing shower, changing into more comfortable clothes. Then later in the evening, she had opened her father's black box, showing Kirill the different currencies. She had offered him a portion of it out of gratitude for having saved her life, but he had simply replied that she should keep it, just in case. She had not questioned his reply, but just shrugged it off.

And that night, like every other night, she was sitting on the veranda with her cup of green tea while Kirill was inside. She would leave him be, not questioning his doings, not wanting to disturb him. She was aware that they were still in danger, and she knew he was a bit edgy, but she was grateful nonetheless that he was there with her.

At the moment, she could hear voices inside coming from the living room so she gathered that Kirill had turned on the TV. Being somewhat in a trance for a few seconds, she became fully alerted once again when she heard the newswoman say a familiar name; _a very familiar name_. She turned her head a bit as she listened in more closely.

_"The disappearance of Miss Catherine Lambert, the daughter of Interpol agent Maurice Lambert whose body was found in the remains of a burned car over a week ago, has been linked to the death of Viktor Petrovin and Alexei Ivanov, two FSB special agents whose bodies were found in agent Lambert's apartment, where apparently his daughter had been staying since the last two days. The main suspect in Miss Lambert's kidnapping is an assassin who recently barely survived a car crash in Moscow a few days ago and escaped the hospital after only one night of stay."_

"_Oh my God..._" Catherine whispered as she stood under the archway of the living room, her arms crossed over her chest as if hugging herself and still holding her cup of tea, having slowly entered the house as the news was unfolding. "Kidnapping?" she said skeptically, and Kirill briefly glanced at her from his position on the sofa.

_"This assassin is known only as Kirill, a former FSB agent affiliated with Yuri Gretkov, recently arrested for conspiracy. Whether or not Gretkov is involved in this has yet to be determined. Miss Lambert was last seen with the assassin at the Ruzyne International Airport in Prague, where a man known as Igor Golubev was shot dead by the assassin. It has been said that the Interpol is now working with the FSB on this case. We are asking everyone who would have useful information to contact the FSB. More to come as more information is released."_

Kirill turned off the TV and stared at the blank screen while Catherine slowly shook her head and moved forward to an opposing sofa to sit across Kirill, her hands tightly holding the tea cup rested on her knees.

"_It's all public,_" she whispered, her eyes glazed and fixed on Kirill. "I've to get the laptop to chief Evans soon," she added.

"Tomorrow morning," Kirill replied, and she nodded. "Get some sleep," he added, and she rose.

"And you?" she asked as she was walking away, stopping briefly to turn and look at him.

"I'll sleep on the sofa," he simply answered, and she knew why. If someone were to break in in the middle of the night, he would be alert and ready. Catherine wearily made her way upstairs to her old bedroom, her shoulders slumped.

She felt somewhat safe with an armed assassin downstairs. And although she was comfortably tucked in, she still did not fall asleep easily. And then she kept waking every hour or so, tossing and turning, but falling asleep almost immediately. The last time she had awakened, she had slipped her hand under the pillow and felt her father's handgun, which she had placed there the morning she had found it in the safe. She grasped it from under the pillow, stared at it for a few seconds as the moon rays reflected on it from her bedroom window, and set it on her nightstand. She glanced at her clock: _12:20 a.m._

That is when she heard the crash. Bolting upright in her bed, she straightened her back and listened, wondering if the sound had been real or part of her imagination. She slowly let her feet touch the old floorboards so as not to cause them to creak, and tiptoed in the hallway. Carefully approaching the wooden balustrade, she passed the spare bedroom and noticed Kirill's handguns on the nightstand. She glanced downstairs, and a shadow caught her attention.

Staying still, she whispered. "_Kirill?_" No answer. The intruder halted, and then another shadow appeared from slightly behind it. That is the moment Catherine realized there was a third person in the house. She gasped, quickly turning to run in her bedroom.

The intruder quickly caught the form of Catherine upstairs, aimed his revolver toward her and pulled the trigger. The shot resounded in Catherine's ear as she felt the bullet whiz past her head. She shrieked and threw herself on the floor, and then crawled to her bedroom.

Kirill had been just in time to kick the intruder's hand to deviate the shot, but the man quickly recovered and swiftly turned to aim his revolver at Kirill. Kirill put up his arm in a solid lock and blocked the man's hand, twisting his own arm so as to grasp his opponent's hand and twist the fingers. The intruder groaned loudly, dropping the gun on the floor which Kirill kicked, making it slide under a sofa, but then the man used his other fist to hit Kirill's ear in a deafening punch. Kirill grunted and backed a couple of disoriented steps as he held the side of his head, and the intruder advanced on him. Kirill shook his head out of his daze, and blocked a kick from his opponent.

Once she reached her bedroom, Catherine grabbed the handgun from the nightstand and cocked it as she silently came out of her bedroom once more, hearing the bustle of the fight downstairs. She strode the hallway and carefully descended the staircase, holding the gun firmly with both hands, ready to fire.

Kirill expertly blocked kick after kick, punch after punch, and then himself executed a set of blows toward his opponent. He managed to fully bash his opponent between the eyes, and the intruder fell on the floor, moaning and cursing in French as blood oozed from his nose. As he attempted to get up, not fully recovered but not giving up, Kirill grabbed a nearby phone cord and yanked on it to get enough give. He punched his opponent's lower back as he crouched there, trying to stand, and Kirill used his full weight to keep the man from trying to get up.

Catherine was now at the bottom of the stairs, aiming her gun toward them, her shaky finger on the trigger. But she removed it, fearing that she would shoot Kirill instead of the intruder. The man squirmed under Kirill, but Kirill quickly coiled the wire around the man's neck as tightly as he could, gripping it with his hands while holding the man down with his lower body. The man tried to get loose, but slowly and then abruptly stopped moving. Putting his fingers on the man's neck, Kirill felt for a pulse but there was none. He let his opponent's head fall heavily on the floor, and got up.

Catherine just stood there, eyes opened wide, her mouth slightly ajar but speechless. Kirill looked at her for a moment before walking toward her, lifting his hand to put it on top of her shaking one which held the gun. He took the gun from her and tucked it in his pants behind his back, under his shirt, while Catherine walked toward the man's body. She approached slowly, looking carefully at his face.

"I recognize his face," she said, her voice raspy. "From the laptop. He's an Interpol agent," she stated. "_Jesus Christ..._" she whispered. "Gretkov's got Interpol agents working for him too?" she asked furiously as she turned to look at Kirill.

"We have to leave," he simply retorted. "Now."

Catherine nodded. Honestly, she really did not want to stay there, home or not. It was not safe. No where was safe. She had to get those files to Evans pronto.

Kirill ascended the steps two by two, and Catherine followed him upstairs. He fetched his things from the spare bedroom, stuffed everything in his duffel bag, including the laptop, and waited for Catherine while she did the same.

"I know a place we can go," she stated as she hurriedly picked up a few personal belongings and tossed them on the bed, using the same purple duffel bag.

Kirill stood in her bedroom's doorway and watched her. She went to her private washroom, coming out fully dressed, and as she looked at him as she passed by, she noticed the blood trickling down the side of his face from just above his ear, a few drops having dripped on his shoulder.

"Jesus." She paused to look at it, lightly brushing her fingers over his temple. "You're bleeding again." But he batted her fingers away.

"Later," he replied, and she just stared for a few seconds before letting out a barely audible _"Fine"_.

"There's this Inn near Lyon," she continued as she resumed her packing. "My father and I used to go there," she explained. "To get away. The owner's an old woman. She'll recognize me, but she doesn't own a TV and she never reads the newspaper so she won't know anything about all of this," she said as she turned to look at Kirill.

He just stood there, but she was so used to him not replying that she somehow knew he was silently agreeing that it was a good place to go for the rest of the night; until the morning when they would attempt to deliver the files to Evans.

She zipped her bag and picked it up, setting it on her shoulder as she looked and Kirill and nodded briefly. She gestured for Kirill to follow her, led him to the garage, and once inside, she looked at their options.

"Car or SUV?" she asked, glancing at Kirill. Kirill stood for a moment, staring at both, and then glanced further in the garage. He noticed something hidden under a black leather cover.

"Bike," he simply replied, nodding toward it.

Catherine smiled knowingly and shrugged in indifference, walking toward it. Kirill helped her uncover it, and she reached for her helmet as well as her father's, handing it over to him.

"I guess this is yours now," she offered, and grabbed a set of keys from a nearby hook on the wall.

Kirill mounted the bike and started the engine. He waited for Catherine to open the door garage and then put it in gear, drove it out of the garage, and cautiously glanced around the house. Catherine followed him, closed the garage door behind her, and climbed behind Kirill.


	12. A Night At The Inn

As Catherine had predicted, the old woman showed them to one of her rooms with a benign smile, completely oblivious of everything that had been going on these past few days. Catherine apologized sympathetically for their arrival this late at night; after all, it was past midnight, but the little old lady assured them that she was not sleeping at all.

As it had been for the past week, Catherine took the bed and Kirill took the sofa. While she was unpacking the things she would need for the night, Catherine noticed Kirill standing in front of the mirror, examining his laceration. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, and, once again, she decided to help him. She rummaged through her bag for the first-aid kit she always carried with her, walked toward the washroom, and gently pushed him until he sat on the toilet. He looked at her with an odd look, but she just chuckled.

"Your arm I could reach," she started. "But not your face," and she smiled when he cleared his throat.

Examining it closely, she could see that the blood had already started to clot. Repeating her initial treatment, she soaked a gauze with disinfectant and carefully rubbed it around the wound. This time, Kirill actually let out a hiss through clenched teeth.

"Sorry," she said. "It probably stings more on the face than on the arm." And she smiled again when he just looked at her with a _"You think?"_ expression. "At least it won't need stitching," she added as she tossed the gauze in the waste bin and picked up a clean one to repeat the treatment.

Making sure the wound was disinfected thoroughly, she gently massaged it with the tip of her fingers to soothe the stinging. While doing so, she had leaned a bit closer to him, and realized she could feel his breath on her cheek. She was about to back away, but he slightly turned his head until their faces were mere inches apart.

Catherine did not know what to make of it. He just stared her in the eyes, and his breathing had become brisker. _Was he about to kiss her?_ It felt awkward... but right. She closed the gap between them, and tentatively pressed her lips on his. She slightly parted them as she leaned even closer, and he responded by parting his. Tongues met, hesitantly at first, but then softly, and then the kiss grew more and more passionate.

Kirill rose to his feet and embraced her with both his arms, while Catherine encircled his neck with hers, entwining her fingers in his short hair. Her head was reeling, and she felt a tingling in her stomach, but she could not stop. After a while though, Kirill pulled back and she let out a strangled moan, but recovered and cleared her throat as she put her fingers over her mouth, her head bent low.

"Sorry," he said. "I shouldn't," he continued. "We can't..." And Catherine lifted her head to look at him.

Just then, a loud knock at the door made Kirill turn his head swiftly toward it while Catherine jumped slightly and gasped silently, then chuckled to herself, and then she darted out of the washroom toward the door while Kirill stayed in, both his feet glued to the floor. But he kept his eyes on Catherine, watching her as she opened the door and took a couple of white bath towels and robes from the innkeeper. He heard Catherine thank her and then she closed the door, turning to walk toward the washroom again.

She deposited the fresh linens on the cupboard next to Kirill, feeling his eyes on her, but she avoided his gaze.

"Owner remembered she hadn't filled this room with supplies today," she quietly said, and then turned to leave again.

"I'm gonna take a quick shower," he replied and she nodded.

Catherine closed the door behind her, leaning back on it as she just stood there, unable to move, and barely able to breathe. _"What the hell was that?"_ she asked herself. She shook her head briskly, walked toward the bed, and plopped down on her back. She covered her face with both her hands and took a deep breath as she heard the shower head turn on.

Kirill let the droplets of hot water trickle down his back, leaning forward with his hands against the shower stall to keep himself steady, his head bent low. _"You have a job to do, Kirill."_ he thought to himself. _"You can't lose your focus."_

When he got out of the shower, he found Catherine on the bed, curled on her side, facing away from him. She had changed from her blue jeans and fitted black T-shirt to a gray sports jersey-style cotton above-knee nightdress, and he thought her asleep. He strode to the sofa, clad only in a towel wrapped around his waist, and went through his bag for briefs and pants. When he turned again, Catherine was sitting on the bed, hugging her knees to her chest. And then she rose.

She walked determinedly toward him, and, coming up very close to him, she lifted her arms to grip the side of his shoulders with her hands, lowering him to her, and she kissed him again. And when Kirill backed away once more, she moved her hands from her shoulders to his face, rubbing the short stubble on his face with her fingers.

"_Don't say we can't,_" she whispered as she rested her forehead on his chest, and paused. "Are you married?" she asked quietly, lifting her head again to look in his eyes, and he shook his head.

"No," he answered.

"Is there someone else?" she continued, and he shook his head once more.

"No," he replied. And he kissed her.

A soft moan escaped from Catherine's throat as Kirill lifted her up by the hips, and she automatically wrapped her legs around his waist. He brought her to the bed, letting the towel fall on the floor, and he laid her on the bed. He put his hands on her thighs, just below the nightgown, grabbed the hem, and slowly pulled it up until it came off as Catherine lifted her arm above her head.

Left only in her knickers, she shivered slightly but Kirill covered her body with his while he kissed her fervently. He let his hand roam freely all over her body, and then used one hand to remove her knickers as she bent her knees, slightly raised her hips, and then lifted one leg after the other. She then parted her legs for him as he settled between, and let out a ragged breath that she had not realized she was holding when he entered her.

Their breathing became simultaneously strained as they melded perfectly into each other in their throes of passion, and Kirill collapsed on Catherine after they both reached earth-shattering climaxes. He stayed on top of her for a little while, leaning on one elbow to support his upper body so as not to crush her, but he kept his face close to hers. Catherine rubbed small circles on his back as they focused on catching their breaths, and then he slid out and off her, reaching for the throw folded at the foot of the bed. She turned so as to face him and he covered them both.

He laid on his back and she rested her head on his shoulder, one arm thrown over his chest and the other snuggled close to hers, while he absentmindedly caressed her shoulder with one hand as the other was tucked behind his head. They kept silent for a while, and then Catherine suddenly had the urge to ask him something.

"Kirill?" she started softly, pausing before continuing. "Could you be happy with me?" And she noticed he stopped caressing her shoulder, but left his hand there. "Because if this is something you do, and then run away, I want to know," she clarified.

She was serious, but her tone was tender and affectionate. Kirill just stared at the ceiling.

"There were others," he replied, and she waited while he paused for a second. "It's different with you," he added, and she stroke his chest as he glanced down and looked in her eyes.

"I've never seen you smile," she stated as an afterthought, and she paused. "I know you've had a troubled past," she said, and he looked back up at the ceiling. "But I want to see you smile," she continued softly. "_I want to make you smile,_" she whispered sleepily, and he turned on his side, kissing her forehead and hugging her tightly, keeping her close to his chest.

She let out a content sigh, closed her eyes as she snuggled against him, and fell in a deep sleep. Kirill laid still so as not to disturb her, and listened to her even breathing until it lulled him to sleep as well.


	13. Delivering The Evidence

Another loud knock was heard at their bedroom door, but this time, neither Catherine nor Kirill were startled. Catherine lifted her head a bit as she opened her eyes, squinting at the brightness of the morning sun, and feeling something weighing her down. She turned her head slightly to the side, noticing Kirill sprawled on his stomach, his face turned away from her, and one of his arms lazily spread across her back.

The knock had not even made him stir. _"What a protector,"_ she thought to herself, chuckling. She slipped from under his arm trying not to wake him, grabbing a bed sheet to cover herself, and went to open the door.

"Good morning, dear," the old lady charmingly said.

"Good morning, Mrs. Dubois," Catherine replied with a pleasant smile.

"I've got a good breakfast cooked downstairs, if you kids are hungry," she continued. "You come down any time you feel like it, alright?" And Catherine nodded her thanks.

Closing the door, she turned and noticed Kirill had gotten up as well. He looked at her, and she noticed that his gaze was relaxed, but more... _intense_. Something, she realized, that happened more often lately. She smiled slightly, and went to the washroom to freshen up and dress as he got ready himself.

That morning they actually ate in their room, and once they were done, Catherine tidied up a bit while Kirill watched her.

"You have to change your appearance," he suddenly said, and she looked at him as she finished making the bed.

"To make the drop, you mean?" And he nodded. "I know where I can get some stuff," she replied, and he nodded again.

And so Catherine checked them out of the Inn, and then stepped in the antique boutique/souvenir shop that the old lady kept where she purchased a short blond wig and huge black sunglasses that covered most of her face. She tried it on and looked in the mirror, barely recognizing herself. She pulled a face and looked at Kirill, who had a neutral expression on his face.

"That will do," he simply said, and cleared his throat, making Catherine laugh quietly.

With her long white trench coat, the cover was sufficient. They got on the bike, and drove to Lyon.

Catherine was relieved to finally deliver the evidence to the Interpol, and she should have been more relaxed, but truth be told, she was tense. When they approached Headquarters, Kirill parked the bike a couple of blocks away, and Catherine took a deep breath. Removing her helmet, being careful not to pull the wig off, she took the laptop out of Kirill's bag and let her head fall forward so that her forehead rested on Kirill's back.

"Where do we go after this?" she asked, and he reached behind to put a hand on her thigh, squeezing gently.

"We'll find a place," he replied, his voice muffled by the helmet, and she nodded.

Getting off the bike, she adjusted her sunglasses, squared her shoulders, and walked toward the building, trying not to attract too much attention; after all, she was quite a beautiful woman.

Once inside, she found that it was quite the same as it was whenever she would visit her father at work. Agents in black suits walked about the floors, phones rang and receptionists answered, and everyone looked busy, and _edgy_. She quickly strode to the elevator shaft, waited for the door to open, got in, pressed the button to the top floor, and tried really hard not to look too nervous.

When she finally got to the door to Secretary General Barry Evans' office, she hesitated. She wanted to show herself to him, to let him know that she was alright, but that morning Kirill had advised her that she should keep a low profile once inside the building; deliver the files and leave. There were possibly other Interpol agents working for Gretkov, and they could not risk them seeing her deliver the evidence.

Catherine looked around to make sure she was not being observed, bent to put the laptop down on the floor, and slid it under Evans' door.

From inside his office, Evans was looking over a report: Last night, at approximately 12:25 a.m., a neighbor had heard a gunshot inside Lambert's residence in Rhone-Alpes, and when the police arrived on site ten minutes later, they found the body of Interpol agent Antoine Thibault. Investigations had determined that the gun they found under a sofa was Thibault's, and that he was the one who had fired the shots before being strangled to death.

Evans sat heavily in his chair, his head resting on his hand as he rubbed his temple with his fingers. "_What the hell does that mean,_" he asked himself. "_Why would Thibault go at Maurice's house and fire his gun? Who was he shooting at?_" It was disconcerting, but Evans weighted out the possibilities: Thibault was working for Gretkov and had been sent there to kill Catherine.

He shook his head. He did not want to believe that; double agents in the Interpol? Under his supervision? How had he possibly missed that? Then again, Gretkov was a very powerful man. With a lot of money. He himself had always believed that special agents were not compensated well enough, but to work for a conspirator?

Then something beneath the door caught his attention. He turned to look, and it took him a few seconds to realize what it was. He quickly strode to the door, picked up the laptop, and opened it. There was a note tucked inside. Wondering who had slid it under this door, he swiftly opened it, but nobody was there. He stepped out of his office, looked around the cubicles, and then on one side of the hallway and the other. There, at the elevator door, he noticed a blond woman with a white trench coat. She seemed... out of place.

And then, before stepping between the elevator doors, she slightly turned her head toward him, pulled her sunglasses down just barely to reveal her eyes, and smiled ever so slightly. Evans recognized her right away. He lifted the laptop, nodded briefly, and she was gone. "_Be careful, Catherine,_" he whispered.

Evans stepped in his office and shut the door behind him, and then sat in his chair and set the laptop on the desk. He stared at it for a few seconds, picked up the letter addressed to him, and unfolded it.

_Barry,_

_Where to start... I'm alright. I've been through a lot this past week, but I haven't been alone. Kirill saved me and then helped me. I know what you're thinking; but he's not what he seems. I'll explain later._

_It was all Yuri Gretkov, Barry. He had moles in both the FSB and the Interpol. And dad uncovered it all... You'll find what you're looking for in his laptop._

_I need a favor, Barry. I'm still not safe from Gretkov. I'm gonna go away for a while, and Kirill's coming with me. And I need you to clear his record; I know he worked for Gretkov, but not anymore. Gretkov ruined his life. He helped me because he wanted to expose Gretkov._

_I'm not sure where we're going, but I'll come back, sooner or later. Don't worry about me. I'll be safe; trust me. Please relay my message to grandpa; I just know he's worried sick about me. I love you both very much._

_Catherine_

Evans let out a sigh of relief; she was safe. And not alone. And he would do what she asked of him; he could never deny her.

He put the letter in his top drawer, and then turned on the laptop, recognizing the FSB logo. He waited a few seconds, and all the files appeared. They were set to open when you clicked on them, and Evans opened them all. He went through them one by one, and took it all in. _Yuri Gretkov. $100 millions from the FSB account. Assassination of Nikolay Gorbachyov. Dmitry Kuzenkova. Igor Golubev. FSB agents Alexei Ivanov and Viktor Petrovin_. And then he shook his head. _Interpol agent Antoine Thibault_.

"_Son of a bitch,_" he whispered.

And then he noticed something else. One more file, hidden behind another. He clicked on it, but nothing happened. Thinking quickly, he attempted to connect Maurice's laptop to his own, copied the file, and pasted it on his own desktop. It worked. The file opened, and he saw another face. A very recognizable one.

"_What the hell?_" he whispered. "Jesus Christ..."

He bolted from his chair, leaving everything on his desk, and stepped out of his office, searching through the cubicles.

"Geneviève!" he called to his receptionist. "Where's Watson?"

The girl lifted her head and looked at Evans, startled a bit by his rude tone.

"He just left, sir," she answered. "About five minutes ago," and he tensed.

"Where did he go?" he asked quickly, and she just shrugged slowly. "Which way did he leave?" he retorted.

"He took the elevator," she replied, pointing toward the elevator shaft.

Evans immediately sprung into action. He pointed his finger to Geneviève.

"Call the local police. Tell them to be on alert for Nicholas Watson. Have them arrest him on site. He is to be considered armed and dangerous," he ordered her, and she looked surprised.

"What?" she asked incredulously, and by then everyone around was listening in.

"DO IT!" he shouted, and she did not question him again. She picked up the phone and called the Lyon Police. "Everyone!" he shouted, and all the agents were immediately attentive. "Nicholas Watson is corrupt. And I have reason to believe that he will try to harm Maurice Lambert's daughter. I want everybody out there and on full alert," he commanded. "NOW!" And everybody was on their feet in a second.

Catherine was almost there. She could see Kirill a couple of blocks away, sitting on the bike, waiting for her. She was free of the evidence, and she felt relieved. Evans would take care of things from now on, and she knew he would help her with her pleas. Kirill would be free as well, and they would both begin a new life.

Then she felt the tip of something hard pushed in her lower back.


	14. It's Not Over Yet

"_Make a single noise, and I pull the trigger,_" a man whispered threateningly in Catherine's ear as she gasped silently. "Move." He pushed the tip of his gun harder in her lower back and Catherine let out a pained moan. _"That voice..." _she thought to herself and tried to turn her head to take a look at her violator, but he made a grunting sound as if to tell her not to.

She glanced at Kirill, and she knew he sensed something was not right. He always did. His eyes were dark and his brows in a deep frown. He kept his eyes on her and the man creeping behind her, and he could discern a plea for help in Catherine's look.

"Is that Kirill?" the man asked menacingly from slightly behind her, and she immediately diverted her eyes from Kirill back to the front.

But then, he violently grabbed Catherine's shoulder to keep her steady and aimed his gun at Kirill, fired a couple of shots, and the whole street full of people became a frenzy of hysteria.

"NO!" Catherine's scream was hardly heard in the uproar, but she noticed that Kirill had not been hit and had already started the bike and pulled in the street.

The man led her across the crosswalk, pushing through the early morning crowd, and into the backseat of a car. He non-too gently shoved her in, slamming the car door behind her, and locked it from the outside before getting in the driver's seat, starting the car, and pulling into the street as well.

Kirill was right behind him. He had a speed advantage with his street racer, but the bustle of the early morning traffic kept him behind. Cursing silently, he kept his eyes on the back of the car, taking a different route when he noticed four Interpol cars come up from behind him and to the sides. They were obviously after the same man as he saw they were chasing him as well.

Kirill did not like this. At all. From previous personal experience, he knew high speed car chases often had devastating endings. He had been lucky to survive that crash in the tunnel in Moscow; Catherine, however, could be less fortunate. That thought made him even more focussed.

He observed from where he drove on a nearby street, keeping his eyes on the agents' cars but focusing on the other. He got distracted when it ran a red light and rammed in a passing car, but it did not stop. Two of the following Interpol cars slammed into two more oncoming vehicles; one turning over, landing on its roof and sliding a few yards before stopping, while the other two skillfully maneuvered through the debris and pursued their chase.

Catherine was nearly panicking. That smash had violently threw her against the car door, and her hip hurt badly. Through the shatterproof window separating the front and back seats, she recognized the man as the Interpol agent who had come to her father's house to give her the bad news over a week ago. _"Nicholas Watson..." _she thought furiously. She had not seen his face amongst the other traitors in the FSB files, but she knew, obviously, that chief Evans had figured it out, having sent other agents after him.

And then he slammed the brakes and stopped the car, got out, and opened the back door. Catherine noticed they were at the train station. She stared at him defiantly, but she noticed the gun still in his hands and got out, very slowly, as he pointed it at her and gestured for her to get out. When she stepped out, he painfully grabbed her arm and pulled her along.

Kirill was relieved to see the car stop. He stopped as well, not far, and quickly got off the bike to follow Watson and Catherine, watching as the remaining police cars arrived on site. He practically ran through the crowd so as to keep up with them, and by then, he had taken his handgun out of his jacket as well, not paying any attention whatsoever to anything else around him.

Catherine was furious. She could not believe this was the same man who was so nice and compassionate with her when he told her that her father had died. She let him lead her through the station, once in a while quickly glancing behind her to see Kirill chasing them, and when she felt bold enough, she questioned him.

"Was it you who killed my father?" she hissed. "How easy was it for you to look me in the eyes and tell me my father had an accident?" she practically shouted, her voice carrying enough to be heard by him through the loudness of the station.

"So you do recognize me," he retorted as he chuckled. "If you must know, I'm not the one who killed your father," he answered. "That would be Dmitry. But, I would have done it nonetheless," he added, and Catherine shook her head. "Do you have any idea what's at risk for me here?" he continued. "I saw you give the files to Evans... big mistake," he explained. "Now I have to disappear," he paused. "And you're coming with me," he concluded as they were to board the train, but for a split second he turned to look at Kirill running toward them, then lifted his gun to aim at him and fired a shot, missing him, and making everyone around scream and run away. Catherine was rather beginning to get sick of that.

Her father's self-defense lessons coming back to her, she quickly elbowed Watson's guts as hard as she could, making him double over, grabbed his arm and twisted it, making him drop the gun, and then grabbed his head and kneed him in the face, breaking his nose, splattering blood all over her pant leg. By that time, Kirill had reached them. Groaning weakly, Watson writhed on the cold concrete floor, and, grunting fiercely, tried to reach for his gun which Kirill picked up, smashing his head with it.

Looking up at Catherine, he could tell she was beyond relieved, but her eyes were watery and she trembled slightly. She glanced at him at that moment, and she could barely discern what seemed liked a very tiny smile on his lips. She stared at him for a few seconds, and then blinked.

"I've got you smiling," she said shakily, smiling slightly, and Kirill walked to her and hugged her to him.

"_You okay?_" he simply whispered, and she nodded against his chest. "We have to go," he added, seeing four agents come toward them.

Keeping an arm around Catherine, he guided her through the gathered crowd, away from it all. They disappeared, and when the men got there, all they found was their badly beat-up corrupt colleague on the floor and his bloody gun in a garbage disposal a few feet away. One of the men immediately took out his cell phone from his pocket.

"Evans," the chief simply answered, waiting in his office back at Headquarters.

"It's Smith," the agent replied. "We got Watson," he told Evans.

"And the girl?"

"Got away with that Russian assassin," he answered, and Evans breathed out a sigh of relief.

"Let them go," he ordered his man.

"Sir?" Smith asked, confused.

"Let them be," Evans repeated very clearly. "She's safe." He paused, and Smith nodded. "Did you find anything else?" he continued.

"Two duffel bags on a street racer outside the station, one belonging to Catherine and the other to the Russian," he replied.

"Bring them to me," he ordered, and Smith nodded briefly.

"Yes, sir," and Evans hung up, glancing out the window of his office with a slight smile on his lips.

Once his agents had returned with Watson, he had the now delusional and restless corrupt agent officially arrested and gave the order to contact the FSB and let them know about the situation: The heist, the murders, the conspiracy, everything. Dmitry Kuzenkova was to be arrested as well, and Yuri Gretkov would never walk free again.

Once that was done, he brought the bags to his office. Looking through the purple one, he found Catherine's personal items and two passports; one real and one fake. _"You really are in good hands,"_ he thought to himself. And, to his surprise, he found stacks of different currencies at the bottom. "_Not surprising of Maurice to always be prepared,_" he chuckled, shaking his head slightly. In Kirill's bag, he found handguns, bullet clips, a few passports; typical assassin material. He chuckled again, and stuffed everything back in the bags. He then stepped out of his office, and ordered his assistant Geneviève to send everything to the Lambert residence.

"_You'll need it all,_" Evans mused, and then went about his usual business.


	15. An Old Face And A New Beginning

Catherine stood in front of her father's house, her arms crossed over her chest and hugging herself. A single tear streamed down her cheek and she let it run its course, tickling the side of her face until it reached her chin and dropped on her shirt collar. So many memories in this place; both good and bad ones. And for some reason, leaving it all behind was surprisingly easy for her.

She had cleaned out the kitchen and had left everything as it was; from her clothes in the closets and drawers to all the furniture in the house, covered with thick bed sheets. Even her car and her father's SUV in the garage. She had not been able to go beyond herself and sell the house nor her possessions, but she knew she could not stay. Kirill stood a few feet behind her, and waited patiently. He watched her, silently, until she turned her back to the house and walked slowly toward him. Her eyes were full of sorrow, but she had a small smile on her lips, and at that precise moment, he felt particularly possessive of her. She approached him and put her arms around his waist as she rested her head on his chest, and he absentmindedly rubbed her back with one of his hands.

"_Let's go,_" she whispered, and, keeping a supportive arm around her, he led her to the bike which had been redelivered there by Evans. He mounted first, and she mounted behind him, resting her face on his back, facing the house. She let out a quivering sigh, and Kirill turned on the engine and pulled onto the street; away from her childhood residence, and toward her new life.

Her new life with him in Madrid.

Standing on the terrace of their small house, Kirill remembered exactly why he wanted to return to Spain; he had taken Catherine away from her childhood memories, and into his. His best childhood moments were spent here, in Madrid, with his parents. His father had bought this typical terrace house, and every now and then they would travel here from Russia to spend a few weeks away from it all. Catherine had instantly fallen in love with the place, and he knew he would achieve in making her happy. Which, for some reason Kirill could still not fully comprehend, was very important to him.

He heard her soft footsteps behind him, and then felt her arms snake around his waist from behind.

"I'm ready," she said and he turned, taking her hand in his.

They walked the streets of Madrid, hand in hand, feeling very relaxed and comfortable; something they had not known for a long time. On their first night in Madrid, Kirill had promised to take her for a walk around her new home. Catherine's head turned from side to side, her eyes taking in everything they came upon, and Kirill would glance at her, finding her behavior amusing.

She spotted a small pub, a bit loud and rowdy but looking rather harmless, and she tugged on Kirill's sleeve.

"I'm thirsty,' she stated charmingly. "Buy me a drink," and Kirill smiled slightly as he looked down at her from the corner of his eyes.

He let her pull him toward the pub, but then Kirill instinctively put his arms protectively around her and Catherine gripped his hand tighter when they heard four gunshots. Kirill could tell they were close, but they did not come from outside. He looked around, as did everyone else, and then heard the wailing sirens of police cars. He looked toward where they were heading, and froze.

"What's going on?" Catherine asked worriedly. "_Shit..._" she whispered. "_You think they're here for us?_"

But Catherine did not believe that. She trusted that Evans would make sure they would be left alone. And she never mentioned where they were going, so how would they know already? When she glanced at Kirill, she frowned.

"_Jesus, Kirill..._" she breathed. "You're as pale as a ghost. What's wrong?" But Kirill did not answer right away. He kept his eyes fixed on something, or someone, and Catherine turned to look to where he was staring.

"It's not us," he simply replied, and paused. "There," he added, and nodded toward two people.

Catherine looked at the couple, and observed them. They had exited an apartment complex just before three cars with six men armed with guns arrived. The guy held the girl by the arm, walking rather quickly toward a dark gray four-door hatchback. The guy had light brown hair, was a bit shorter than Kirill, but looked just as fierce. And when he looked back, he had a look of complete control on his face. The girl, beautiful with shoulder-length dark blond hair, got in the driver's seat and they drove off as police cars arrived.

Catherine looked toward the commotion around the police cars, and the officers were shouting at the armed men, who were obviously some kind of agents, seizing their guns as they put them on the ground.

"Let's go," Kirill ordered, very seriously, and Catherine followed him.

They walked in silence back to their home. Catherine did not question him further, but she sensed that he was upset about something. And he was quite intent on making it back to their place. His strides were long and purposeful, and she had to walk very fast to keep up.

Once there, Kirill did not remove his jacket but stepped out on the terrace as Catherine poured herself a glass of wine and a shot of vodka for Kirill; he always kept vodka in the fridge. _"A reminder of home," _Catherine mused to herself. She stepped out as well, standing close to him as she offered him his glass which he took appreciatively, and then he kept staring out on the street, observing the people passing by. She waited a few seconds, and then turned to look at him.

"Are you okay?" she asked quietly, and waited. Kirill sat down on a patio lounge, and Catherine sat next to him, but turned so that she faced him. "Something's upset you," she continued. "Wanna talk about it?" Kirill looked at her for a brief moment, and then bent his head to look at his drink before replying.

"Do you remember when I told you about my last target?" he started, and she nodded slightly. "It was in India," he continued, and sighed heavily. "I was meant to terminate him, but I killed a woman instead," he explained, taking a long swig of his drink.

"_His_ woman?" Catherine asked, although she very much knew the answer already, and Kirill nodded.

"They found her body in a river instead of his," and he paused. "I did not sleep well for days after Gretkov told me."

Catherine empathized with him. He looked so vulnerable, and devastated.

"That guy..." she continued. "With the girl we just saw," she paused for a brief moment. "Was that _him_?" she asked sympathetically, and Kirill let out a slow breath through his nose, and nodded.

Catherine lifted her hand to caress the back of his neck, gently massaging his tense shoulder muscles with her fingers.

"Seeing him," he paused. "Right there," and he shook his head slightly. "It was... _painful_."

"It troubles you," she said quietly. "That's good." And she smiled slightly, trying to comfort him. She felt him relax somewhat, and then she took his hand in hers. "Do you think he saw you?" she asked as an afterthought. "Do you think he would come for you?" And Kirill contemplated on that for a while.

"No," he answered. "He was obviously still running," he explained. "He will not come for me." Catherine nodded slightly.

"I don't care what you did, Kirill," she continued tenderly after a few seconds. "I'm already falling in love with you," and she paused as he glanced up at her. And she smiled again. "Nothing you tell me now will change that."

Kirill released her hand and lifted his behind her head, pulling her to him and kissing her forehead.

"It's getting cold," she said quietly and rose, taking his hand again. "Let's go inside," and Kirill followed her.

She put her wine glass on the table and took his glass as well, setting it next to hers. And as she removed her overcoat while he removed his jacket, she led him to their bedroom. Facing him, she unbuttoned his shirt slowly, smiling enticingly as she did so, and Kirill just looked at her. When she had removed his shirt and tossed it on the floor, in one graceful motion she had unzipped the side of her black cocktail dress and let it drop to her feet. She just stood there, in front of him, and then Kirill kissed her slowly and tenderly. He slowly led her toward the bed, and they toppled on it together, removing their last items of clothing with apt fingers.

Lying in bed after their passionate love-making, they cuddled close to each other and Catherine comfortably rested her head on his shoulder. Kirill watched her as she closed her eyes and sighed silently, and he had to admit to himself that he was the happiest he had ever been. This woman, sleeping in his arms, she had inadvertently come into his life at an unexpected time, and she had healed him. Not only physically, but mentally as well. No other woman had ever done that for him. No other had cared for him the way Catherine did.

"_Catherine,_" Kirill whispered in her ear.

"Hm?" she murmured sleepily as she snuggled closer to him.

She slightly opened her eyes again, realizing that it was the first time he had used her name, and Kirill stared in them intently.

"Я люблю Вас," he said, merely above a whisper, and Catherine blinked.

He had never addressed her in Russian before, and she smiled slightly. She did not recognize the words, but she knew what they were. She knew what he had said. A single tear trailed down her cheek, and Kirill brought his hand to her face, wiping the tear gently with his fingers. He pressed his forehead against her, and then gently kissed her lips.

"Thank you," he added, and she smiled slightly.


	16. Epilogue

The wind blew at her long hair as she stood by her father's grave next to her mother's, and she bent to lay flowers on each one. He stood near the gate of the cemetery, watching her as she wiped her tears with her fingers. Her lips were moving, but he could not hear her words.

She stayed for a few more seconds, shivering as a cold gust of wind whipped through her, and she lifted her head to look at nearby trees. Leaves were falling on the ground, and she followed them with her eyes.

Sighing heavily, she turned toward him and looked at him. She had a bittersweet smile on her beautiful face, and she walked slowly, her hands in her coat pockets. Her arms were flattened tightly on each side of her, as if she were cold, and she kept her eyes on him.

As she approached, he opened his arms to embrace her, and she molded against his body, her hands still in her pockets. She rested her head on his chest as he slightly turned and rested his cheek on her head, and they stayed like that for a while in complete silence.

Then she lifted her face a bit to look at him, and smiled happily.

"_Let's go home,_" Catherine whispered, and Kirill nodded.

Home. In Madrid. Where they lived day by day, together and happy, away from their former lives and away from their troubled pasts, at peace with themselves at last.


End file.
